


wandering fires

by terpsichorean



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Arthurian, Canon-Typical Violence, Devotion, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build, Trust, brief implied cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terpsichorean/pseuds/terpsichorean
Summary: Sir James is a knight of King Barrow's court looking to make his mark on the world. He spends his days adventuring, defending the villages of the kingdom from the brigands and magical beasts that threaten them. When he's seriously injured during a fight, his life is saved by a mysterious but powerful mage, Francis. As time passes, an odd friendship begins to grow between them. But their friendship is soon shaken—the king has had a vision of the Holy Grail, similar to one from seven years before that birthed a fatal quest. As a new quest begins and the dangers mount around them, everything James thought he knew about Francis-and himself-will be tested.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 23
Kudos: 41
Collections: The Terror Big Bang 2020





	wandering fires

**Author's Note:**

> so this fic came about because i was reading the witcher books, watching merlin, and writing for the big bang at the same time. 50k later and here we are. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> much of the mythological elements mentioned come from Irish and Welsh mythology and various King Arthur stories. The title comes from Tennyson's Idylls of the King. For a full list of the stories I pull from, check out the end notes. 
> 
> letmeinimafairy's art for this story is embedded throughout and it is SO LOVELY. All of the pieces are absolutely wonderful and I'm so honoured to have such an amazing artist create such amazing pieces for this little fic. Thank you so much!
> 
> Thanks as well to austeyre for the beta, you remain a gem of a human being. And thanks to rubydreamer who had the inspired idea to use a cat race to help me figure out the ending.

James opened his eyes slowly and tried to make sense of the world spinning around him. There were garlands of what looked like herbs above his head, strung up from wooden rafters. He was lying down, a soft pillow cushioning his head, and he felt cold; it distantly occurred to him that his armour was missing. Then the pain hit.

James groaned softly, his body automatically trying to curl around the pain throbbing in his left side and arm. The only effect was more pain, jolting through his body and sprinting up the length of his arm. He gingerly turned his head to try and get a look and swallowed heavily at the sight of the blood.

He heard a muffled curse, then a man appeared within his eyeline, striding quickly to his side. The stranger placed a bowl at James’ side, the scent of whatever was inside mixing with the heavy smell of blood in the air.

“It would be best if you slept,” the man said in an accent that James’ spinning mind couldn’t place immediately. Then the man lifted a hand over James’ head, hovering his palm over James’ eyes and blocking his view of the roof above him. “Sleep now.”

And James did.

When he woke next, there was sunlight slanting through the window across the room. His chest and arm were bandaged, and the table next to the bed was strewn with bowls, pestles, and small clumps of herbs. The smell of blood still lingered, mixing with a sharp scent that reminded him of thunderstorms, and James could feel the blood had dried into a crust on his skin.

James gingerly propped himself up, catching his breath at the sharp spasm of pain in his chest. He persisted until he was upright in the bed, listing dangerously to the side. The small room was empty, although calling it a room was being generous. He was in some makeshift sick room, James realized, in a tiny bed set against a wall surrounded by sheets hung from the ceiling. The walls, such as they were, did little to muffle sound in the other room and James could hear the quiet clinking of dishes, the crackle of flames.

He tried to stand and immediately sat back down, hard. His legs shook like flowers bending in the breeze and he knew if he tried to stand again, he’d end up on the floor. James cursed softly.

“You should still be resting,” a voice said, and James looked up to see the man from before standing in the doorway, a steaming mug cradled in his hands.

The man was unassuming, dressed plainly in simple spun clothes. He looked like any peasant man James had passed in villages the kingdom over. But James could still smell that lightning scent, he could see the herbs and potions scattered around the room, and he remembered that heavy blanket feeling that had pushed him into blackness as his man’s palm hovered over his face.

“I believe I should be dead,” James said slowly, studying the man closely, “and I have you to thank for that not being so.”

The man said nothing, calmly taking a sip from his mug.

“I’m Sir James, son of Lord Robert, from King Barrow’s court,” James said, inclining his head in the best bow he could manage. It still hurt. 

“I know who you are,” the man said and tilted his head toward the corner where James saw his armor had been piled, the spotted cat obvious on his shield. “The songs describe you well. I would have recognized you even without Ylving telling me your name.”

Ylving; James knew that name. He struggled to think back, his mind still foggy. He remembered riding Clio down the road passing a village. A villager, Ylving, had approached him, saw the emblem on James’ shield, and asked for his help with a monster that had been menacing their herds.

James had gone into the woods, followed the tracks he found there, and had come across the thing hunched over the corpse of a sheep.

“A griffin,” James said abruptly, remembering the sheer immensity of the monster. The other man nodded from his place in the doorway.

“Impressive to see a single knight defeat a creature of such renown. King Barrow must be very proud.”

James remained silent, unsure what to say in response to the odd but palpable bitterness in the man’s voice. There was a heavy moment of silence before the man sighed and approached. He placed his mug on the table before putting his hands on James’ shoulder and back, easing him down slowly to lie on the bed.

“Impressive as you may be, sir knight, you do need your rest. I was able to prevent your death, but an instantaneous recovery is beyond my abilities,” the man said with a wry twist to his mouth. “You’ll need to remain for a few days before you’ll be able to travel safely.”

And James finally placed the accent. “You’re from across the water. Ireland.”

The man lifted a brow, eyeing James sardonically. “I am.”

James had never met anyone from across the water, that distant land of magic and mist. The tales always made the inhabitants of that land out to be fairer than this man appeared, more imposing in their stature and manner, the air around them crackling with magic. Even knowing what he was, this man seemed so ordinary.

“I thank you again,” James said, “and I would be grateful to know my saviour’s name.”

The man looked away, his mouth flattening to a tight line. “Francis.”

“Thank you, Francis.”

Francis looked at him silently for a long moment and it seemed some tension in him loosened. “Save your thanks for Ylving,” Francis said, pulling a blanket up around James’ shoulders absently before reclaiming his mug. “If he hadn’t dragged you here when he did, you would have been beyond my abilities to heal. Now you should sleep. We’ll see about you walking around tomorrow.”

Francis began to turn away, but James reached out quickly to grab his arm, wincing as pain shot through him at the gesture. Francis stilled under his hand, eyes coming back to meet James’. 

“My horse?” James asked.

Francis’ lips twisted again and he almost looked amused. He nodded toward the window. “Outside, bothering my mule. She was in much better shape than you were.”

James nodded, and carefully let his arm fall back to the bed. Francis rearranged the blanket around him again, pulling it up to James’ chin as if to tuck him in like a sleepy child.

“Sleep now,” he said, and James remembered earlier, the power that had hidden behind Francis’ words and pushed him into slumber. That power was absent now and James blinked at him wearily until Francis turned away again.

Francis left the room on quiet feet, pulling a curtain over and fastening it, assumedly to give James some sense of privacy. He let his gaze drift back to the ceiling above him, the garlands of herbs. If he really listened, he could hear the sound of Clio whickering outside, joined by the occasional grumbling of what he assumed was Francis’ mule tolerating her often exuberant company. The image brought a tired smile to his face. A sharp whistle from a kettle broke the quiet, quickly stopped as Francis presumably pulled it from the fire. Despite himself, James could feel his eyes start to droop and reluctantly gave himself over to sleep.

_

The next day was a quiet affair, James drifting in and out of sleep. It seemed every time he woke, Francis was there, silently checking his forehead for fever, pressing at the tender flesh around the wound. At some point in the afternoon, he chivvied James to sit up so he could repack the wounds and replace the bandages. It was the first time James had seen the wounds when they weren’t actively bleeding.

They were ugly things, deep punctures left where the griffin had seized him in its paws, but not as bad as James had expected. The worst was in his arm, a perfect hole punched straight through that matched the one on his chest, showing the path of a claw through his flesh. James remembered the pain, the distantly present knowledge that he could die there on the forest floor, and wondered what the wounds had looked like in that moment, for they had felt much worse than the damage he was seeing now.

Francis examined him critically, gently turning his arm to the side to get a better view. James felt the pull on tender flesh and inhaled sharply. Francis hummed to himself and fetched a cloth from the bucket, squeezing out the excess water.

“It’s time to clean you up a bit. You’ve spent long enough stinking up my cottage.” And with that terse remark, Francis turned his attention to James’ skin, soaking the remnants of blood with the warm, damp cloth before wiping them away with a surprisingly tender hand.

“I can do that myself,” James said, voice tightening when the cloth drew a little too close to his wound. Francis eyed him briefly before turning his gaze back to the cloth.

“You would be more convincing if you weren’t struggling so clearly to stay upright.”

James sighed tightly and tried to make the arm he was leaning on shake a little less. It only served to make his body more tense, a fact Francis picked up alarmingly quickly. He shot James a look, one brow quirking.

“That wasn’t an order,” he said sharply, before seeming to force himself to soften. “Just relax. You’ll be more comfortable in a moment.”

James nodded and did his best to stay upright.

Silence descended as Francis continued to clean the blood away from his skin, the water in the pail turning a light pink. Finally, Francis finished his task and turned a keen eye toward his wounds.

“You’ll certainly have scars worthy of tales, but they’re healing nicely,” he said after a period of gentle prods and directions to turn this way or that. He repacked the wound and wrapped clean bandages around James’ arm and chest. All the way through, his hands remained gentle, silently bidding James to rest his arm on Franci’s shoulder so James wouldn’t have to hold it up himself while Francis wrapped his chest.

After they were done, Francis stood back, placing his hands on James’ shoulders with a gentle pressure. “You should lie back down, rest. I’ll make us something to eat.” Then he left the room, taking the pail of bloody water to dump outside.

James contemplated remaining in the bed for a long moment, but the thought abruptly exhausted him. He’d never done well with sitting still - as a child, he was more liable to run through the halls of the manor with William than sit still for a tutor. He could heal just as well by preparing something to eat as he could by resting.

He levered himself out of the bed, and wobbled on his feet for a moment before catching his balance. He gingerly tested the steadiness of his legs, placing one foot slowly in front of the other.

He only managed to make it to the entrance of his little room before his legs refused to carry him any further. He sat down on the little stool there with less grace than he would have liked. He took a few breaths, willing his heart to calm and the sweat that had pricked up across his forehead to cool. His gaze fell upon his armour, piled indiscriminately nearby and still in need of cleaning.

The chest piece was completely mangled, so much so James was surprised they’d managed to pry him out of it. The other parts weren’t much better, dents and scratches corresponding to the injuries on James’ body.

He looked at the armor for a long moment, an odd tight feeling in his gut. As his heart calmed, his ears picked up the sound of Francis outside the cottage, quiet footsteps and the occasional hum and rustling.

He didn’t understand this man. Francis must be a mage of remarkable power, to reduce the injuries James must have had two days previous to the wounds they were now. He remembered the fight with the griffin more clearly now, though the end of it was still blurry. He knew it had been a dirty fight, long and desperate. The longer it had dragged on, the more certain James had become that he would not walk away from it with his life. And yet here he was days later, hurting and tired, certainly, but not steps away from death as he should be. And the man who had made that so was currently chiding a mule for getting into his herbs outside this rough little cabin.

A mage of Francis’ abilities had no place in a humble cottage in the countryside. A mage like that should be firmly ensconced in a court somewhere, serving a lord and drowning in riches, or set up in a remote castle of his own construction, his prowess renowned throughout the land. James had met many mages during his time at King Barrow’s court and on his own travels; most were able, but few were gifted enough to drag a man back from death. And those that were, were certainly not content to be a healer of peasant villagers.

Francis bustled back into the room, interrupting James’ thoughts. A look of intense exasperation crossed his face as soon as he saw James on the chair rather than the bed. “What did I just say?” he grumbled, putting the bowl in his hand down and crossing over to James.

“Sitting still isn’t something I’m good at,” James said, amusement at the look on Francis’ face cutting through his lingering musings.

“No, your talents seem to include ignoring my advice and doing whatever you feel is best,” Francis said, before badgering James back into bed, grumbling the entire time.

The next day passed similarly, and the day after that, with James feeling stronger every day. He slept deeply at night, lulled by the sounds of the forest around the cottage, and would wake every morning to Francis entering his little room with a bowl of porridge. Francis seemed to give up on keeping James in bed after the first day, and let James have full run of the cottage so long as he didn’t try the few steps to go outside on his own. James readily agreed, already bored of his bed, and ended up spending hours seated comfortably beside the hearth with books from Francis’ tiny library while Francis puttered around him.

He discovered the cottage was hardly bigger than the little room he’d initially woken in. The rest of it consisted of Francis’ living space, a little bed tucked away in a corner opposite the large hearth. It was a cluttered little cabin - books strewn across tables and bursting out of shelves, ingredients for various concoctions littered all around. But the mess seemed to be functional for Francis, who always seemed to know exactly where any given thing was located.

It was a shockingly peaceful time. James thought he would quickly grow bored of having no one to talk to, or annoy Francis, a man clearly accustomed to solitude, with his desire for conversation and company. Francis was clearly unused to having someone in his space, judging by the stilted way he would respond to James’ questions or flat out not respond beyond the occasional hum of acknowledgement. There was a tension that lingered in his shoulders and the crease of his brow that James couldn’t seem to wipe away, even with his most idle chatter. But that didn’t stop James, who had never met a person he couldn’t eventually win over. If anything, it stoked his curiosity about this strange mage, seemingly content to be alone in a countryside cottage with only his surly mule for company.

He remained evasive any time James tried to inquire about him, transparently turning the conversation to other topics whenever they strayed to something he obviously found too personal. After days in only each other’s company, James had yet to learn a single fact about the man and his past. But after a few days of prolonged company he seemed willing enough to listen to James’ stories, although James quickly learned that he had no desire to hear anything about James’ life at court. The first few times James had mentioned it, Francis had quickly found something that needed tending to outside and absented himself. James remembered the odd bitterness that had shrouded his voice when he spoke King Barrow’s name and quickly adjusted to exclude the court from their conversations.

James found himself dipping into stories from his youth instead, and he managed to make Francis smile for the first time he could remember after a long-winded tale of the time he and William made off with the night’s puddings under the cook’s nose. It made him look a different man, and James wondered what Francis did when there was no recuperating knight in his cottage to coax it out of him.

One morning, Francis lingered in the doorway after handing James his usual porridge, eyes tracking the movements of his arms and the ease of his breathing. After a moment of watching, he nodded to himself. “How far do you have to travel to return to your home?” he asked.

James swallowed his mouthful of breakfast. “About a day’s ride.”

Francis’ brow tightened for a brief moment before smoothing and he nodded again. “You’ve recovered enough you can manage the ride. I know you must be anxious to return.” His lips quirked slightly. “And I need my sickbed back.”

James huffed a laugh. “I can be ready to leave tomorrow morning, get an early start. If you don’t mind the burden of my company for one more day.”

Francis’ lips quirked a little higher, and James tried not to feel accomplished for getting something so close to a smile so early in the day. “I think I can bear it.”

Early the next morning, Francis carried his armor and supplies out to the paddock beside Francis’ cottage, where Clio had been making fast friends with Francis’ mule during their stay - or, as Francis called it, driving Francis and his mule spare. Francis filled James’ saddlebags and tied the pieces of armor on, unwilling to listen to James’ suggestion he wear the pieces that were still salvageable.

“You don’t need the extra weight,” Francis said gruffly, and would hear no more.

Finally, the task completed, Francis stepped back. James mounted the horse, wincing at the twinge in his chest that made itself known.

“You’ll need quite the blacksmith to save those,” Francis said, squinting up at James past the rising sun shining through the trees.

“I wonder if I shouldn’t just let you keep them, as recompense for saving my life,” James said. Francis huffed.

“Don’t try to leave me your refuse and pass it off as fortune. I have no use for your armor, even if it was whole.”

James laughed. “Then you’ll simply have to settle for the coin I’ll bring you.” Francis frowned up at him, seemingly displeased. James frowned in return. “You cannot imagine I’ll leave you uncompensated.”

Francis huffed and looked away. “You owe me nothing, James. Just a promise to be more careful around griffins in the future.”

“You saved my life, Francis, I’m in your debt.”

Francis looked back up at him, the sun cresting the trees to light the blue of his eyes. “You owe me nothing.”

James’ horse whuffed and shifted beneath him, obviously growing bored of standing still. James shook his head, shifting his grip on the reins. “You’ve not heard the end of this. I’ll be back to bother you into accepting my coin soon enough.”

Francis smiled up at him, a full one that James usually had to coax out over hours of quips and light hearted conversation. “Go back to your castle, James. Safe journey.”

James nodded to him and nudged his heels into Clio’s sides. He turned down the track leading away from Francis’ cottage, heading into the trees. James glanced back just as he left the clearing and saw Francis watching him go, a hand shading his eyes from view.

_

A month later found James riding back into the same clearing. The little cottage looked just the same, lit up by the sun peaking over the surrounding trees. Francis’ mule was grazing nearby, glancing up at James and Clio then away with a flick of his tail, the grass clearly more important. James looked at the mule, looked at the cottage, and knew that Francis was probably inside. He hesitated, and felt the blood slowly crawling down his fingers to drip on Clio’s shoulder.

He rode closer to the cottage and gingerly dismounted, the shock of his feet hitting the ground sending pain jolting up his arm. He was still clutching the pommel of the saddle and trying to catch his breath when the door of the cottage opened, Francis peering out with wrinkled brow.

His eyes landed on James, then tracked the blood soaking through James’ armor. “What have you done to yourself now?” he asked, exasperation heavy in his voice even as he quick-footed down the steps and guided James inside.

“You had a wyvern problem at a farm the next village over,” James said, trying to sound light-hearted and joking rather than pained.

“And I suppose it’s gone now?”

“You’re welcome.”

Francis huffed derisively. “And all you had to do was let it take your arm off.”

James stifled a groan as Francis helped him sit on the same sickbed he’d had before. Francis immediately started prying at James’ armor, his fingers surprisingly deft at locating all the bindings. “A small price to pay when I know I have your abilities to rely on.”

Francis shot him a quelling look, his hands pausing on James’ chestplate. “You’re a fool.”

Then he pulled the chest piece off, James stifling another groan as pain lanced up his arm at the sharp movement.

Francis ignored him, already pushing his mail out of the way to look at his arm. James craned his head to try and look himself, but Francis was too close, the back of his head blocking James’ view. He could feel Francis touching the area though, prodding softly at his skin around the wounds.

After a few long moments, Francis stepped back and bustled over to his cabinet, pulling supplies out of it with the long practice of experience. “Here,” he said, “hold this to the wound to apply pressure. I’m going to warm some water.”

James took the clean rags and pressed them to the wounds with a hiss. They were long scratches he could see now, letting the blood creep down his arm unstaunched. “Will I live?”

Francis shot him a look again, and James told himself he wasn’t imagining that it looked a little amused this time. “No thanks to you.”

“No, all thanks must go to you,” James said, projecting his voice so Francis could still hear him as he left the room, presumably heading toward the hearth. “This is the second time you’ve saved my life.” He heard Francis snort from the other room and bit down on a laugh.

Francis returned presently, holding a pail and a kettle. He poured the water into the pail and quickly doused his hands in the hot water. “Let me look,” he said quietly, his fingers lingering over James’ until James gave up his grip on the rags. Francis replaced them with a damp cloth, wiping away the blood from the wounds and peering at them intently. James grit his teeth as the pain lanced up his arm again.

“You only need stitches,” Francis said finally, “the bleeding has stopped already.” His gaze jumped up to meet James’, a mischievous look James hadn’t seen before in his eyes. “You truly will live. Congratulations.”

James bit down on a laugh again and bent at the waist in an ironic bow, pleased that it earned a huffed laugh from Francis.

Francis cleaned the wound and patched him up in short order; his stitches were neat, tidy things, possibly the best James had ever received. Then, he picked up the wet cloth again and started to wash the blood from James’ arm.

“I can do that myself,” James said.

Francis looked up and held his gaze for a moment before looking back down at James’ arm. “I still need to wrap your bandages,” he said, and continued with his self-assigned task. James, after a moment struggling with himself, left him to it, feeling the soft drag of the cloth against his skin.

When the blood was gone, Francis patted the skin dry before lifting the bandages from the small table and beginning to wrap James’ arm. The only sound was the soft whisper of the bandages and the whickering of Clio outside.

“You’ve been well?” James said, suddenly unable to take the silence anymore. Francis didn’t bother to look up this time.

“Better than you, certainly. But I’ve had the sense to stay away from wyverns recently. I find it helps my insides stay where they belong.” Francis shot him a wry look.

James laughed softly. “I’d be a poor knight if I ignored innocent farmers and let them fend off wyverns themselves.”

Now Francis looked up at him fully, gazing at James’ face intently for a long moment. “Maybe so.”

He finished with the bandage, checking his work before turning his gaze away. His eyes fell on James’ chest and his fingers followed, tracing the healed puncture wounds there. “These have healed well,” he said.

James held himself still, feeling the gentle brush of Francis’ fingers against his skin. “As I said, this is the second time you’ve saved my life.”

Francis nodded, something distant in his expression. He stood and pulled the little table away, replacing his supplies in the cabinet.

“I hope you’ll let me repay you this time,” James said, his eyes on Francis’ back. It was his true reason for visiting Francis’ tiny cottage today, even considering the injury. Coming across the farmer in need of help with the wyvern had been a happy accident but he had not come here with the intention of seeking healing from Francis, not at first.

Francis shook his head immediately. “You still owe me nothing.”

“Francis,” James said, a little more sharply than he’d intended, and he saw Francis’ shoulders stiffen. “Of course, I owe you. I owe you my life.”

“You were barely wounded,” Francis said, not turning around. His hands were frozen halfway into the cabinet, a roll of unused bandages gripped tightly.

“I’m not talking about today.”

“James,” Francis said, and James abruptly realized it was the first time Francis had ever said his name. When he’d stayed with him before, there had seemed to be no need for names. “I will not accept payment from you. And I’ll hear no more of this.”

James took a breath, ready to refute him, but paused when Francis glanced over his shoulder briefly. There was a strain to his jaw and a cast to his eyes that, coupled with his tense shoulders, showed just how upset he was growing. James let his breath sigh out in defeat. It mystified him, this refusal to receive due payment for services rendered, but James had no desire to force an argument over it.

“Seems a poor way to make a living,” he couldn’t resist saying.

“I manage,” Francis replied, and although he still sounded terse, he didn’t sound so upset anymore. “I’ll get you something clean to wear. And you should eat something. No sense in you collapsing on your way.”

James shook his head. “I won’t be staying, Francis. I’ve imposed on you enough.”

Francis ignored him, leaving the room without replying. James sighed again, refusing to let the man’s lack of manners reduce James to something as low as rolling his eyes.

Francis returned a few short minutes later with a clean tunic – far too short for James, but it was better than his own, blood stained as it was – and, of course, a bowl of porridge. James wondered absently if Francis was trying to punish him for having the gall to try to pay him.

But he obeyed Francis’ silent commands, changing into the clean clothes and spooning in the porridge under Francis’ watchful eye. He nodded once he saw James was following his mute directions and picked up the pail with the bloody water to head outside. James watched him go and moved quickly as soon as he exited the cottage. The purse of coin, given to James from a grateful noble for rescuing his daughter from a wraith was still secured to his waist. James tucked it into the back of Francis’ cabinet of medicine and made it back to the bed and the porridge right before Francis re-entered.

If the man was too stubborn to accept payment, James would take away the choice of accepting it. It was best to settle any remaining debts now, rather than leave it hanging over both of their heads. James doubted he would back this way for quite some time.

-

The celebration around James was in full swing, the pace of the dancing and the flow of the ale increasing as the sun dipped toward the horizon. It was Beltane, and James had just vanquished the slyzard that had been harassing travellers on the road to this village. He had only come to let the villagers know the road was safe again and had been pulled into the festivities, a tankard of ale shoved into his hands.

Now, he was seated at one of the tables grouped around the meadow hosting the festivities, the world pleasantly tipsy and warm. He’d shed his armor ages ago, and now it lay propped up next to his foot, which was tapping along to the music.

“You should dance,” said the village leader, Audofleda, an older woman with her grey hair pinned back from her face.

“I’m not sure I know the steps,” James said, eyes on the whirling dancers, weaving in and out of their lines.

“There’s not much to learn, when everyone has had something to drink,” the woman laughed, following his gaze, “just try not to trample each other.”

James smiled up at her. “Then maybe I should grab another ale before attempting it.”

He wandered over to the kegs, where a robust man was cheerfully decanting ale to anyone who happened by. James’ tankard was filled again in the blink of an eye. He was in the midst of taking a drink, eyeing the dancers and trying to memorize the steps, when he heard a voice behind him.

“I should have known I would find you here.”

He turned and was shocked to find Francis standing behind him. He was still dressed plainly, his only concession to the occasion a sprig of greenery tucked behind his ear. His arms were folded and a heavy frown creased his face.

“Francis,” James said, starting to smile, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

Francis’ frown didn’t shift. “Then you’re less observant than I gave you credit for. You know where my cottage is; you must know this village is within my rounds. And who else is going to treat the poor bastards injured by the slyzard?”

“Who else, indeed,” James mused, then gestured toward the keg. “Drink?”

Francis’ eyes flicked to the ale and away. “No.” He then reached into his satchel and pulled out a small bundle. “You left this last time.”

James frowned. “Did I?”

Francis glared at him, and shook the bundle. It clinked meaningfully.

James couldn’t resist this time – he rolled his eyes and couldn’t bring himself to regret the boorish behaviour. “Really, Francis, must we?” He turned and began to walk away, not surprised when he heard Francis’ steps immediately follow him.

“Yes, we must,” Francis said doggedly, “I told you I didn’t require payment.”

“And I decided you did. The least you could do would be to accept it gracefully.”

Francis sputtered in outrage, and James bit down on a smile. He had to pause a moment to let a group of maidens pass and Francis took the opportunity to head him off.

“I do not require your money,” he said, an edge to his voice. He thrust the bundle out at James again.

James looked at the bundle, then back up at Francis. “I don’t understand your reluctance to take it. It's a good payment for work well done, to show my appreciation.”

Francis huffed. “I don’t require your appreciation, either.” He wiggled the bundle meaningfully.

James eyed him. “I’m not taking it back.”

Francis glared at him for a long moment, the tension in his frame completely at odds with the bright music and continuing swirl of the dancers over his shoulder. The sprig of greenery was still perched merrily over his ear, out of place with the fearsome frown on Francis’ face. It was far too endearing a sight and James suppressed the urge to laugh, knowing Francis would take it in the wrong way.

“Fine,” Francis finally bit out, and caught a passing boy by the arm. “Where’s Thomas?”

The boy pointed back the way he’d come with a smile. “Right beside the oak, next to the cake!”

“Good lad,” Francis said, patting the boy on his back and sending him on his way. Then he turned to James. “Come on then.” He set off at a fast clip, slipping through the crowd without a single stutter in his step. James followed, curious who this Thomas was and why Francis so suddenly wanted to see him. Though if Francis was trying to bring the local headman into this, James might actually lose his patience with the farce.

Francis fetched up in front of a young man, dressed in the same simple fashion as Francis himself. They seemed pleased to see each other, and Francis reached out to clasp the man’s shoulders in greeting, a smile James had never seen before crossing his face.

“Good to see you, Thomas,”

“You too, sir,” Thomas said quietly, smiling back at Francis. Francis turned to gesture at James, who straightened up.

“Thomas, meet Sir James, son of Lord Robert, of King Barrow’s court.” The two of them bowed to each other, James noting the unearthly blue of Thomas’ eyes, enough to make him wonder if the young man had some Seidhe blood in him.

“James, this Thomas, son of Job. He’s the smartest man in this village and bound to take over for Audofleda one day,” Francis said with his usual baldness which James had still not quite grown accustomed to. Thomas, for his part, seemed to take the comment, and the implied disparagement of his fellow villagers, in stride.

“A pleasure,” James said pleasantly, practiced at being genial even while confused.

Thomas smiled at him, that assessing look still in his eyes. “The pleasure is all mine. After all, we have you to thank for ensuring our goods make it safely to market.”

James inclined his head respectfully. “I was simply doing my duty.”

“Yes, yes, James requires no thanks,” Francis interrupted, “in fact, he asked me to present you with this, to show his appreciation for allowing him to participate in your celebrations tonight.” And he thrust the little bundle to Thomas, who had no choice but to take it in his hands.

Thomas quickly noted the weight, and the soft clink of coins within. He opened the bundle and James didn’t need to see the ever so small widening of his eyes to know it was probably more coin than he’d ever seen in his life.

“Sir James, we couldn’t possibly accept this,” Thomas began, “it’s far too generous-“

“No, it’s just generous enough,” Francis cut in again, “and James won’t hear of any refusals. Isn’t that right, Sir James?” Francis turned to him with an expectant look and James wondered what exactly would happen if he disagreed with him. But James hadn’t spent so many years in different courts around the country without knowing how to adapt to new situations. He turned back to Thomas.

“Indeed. Thomas, your village has been kind enough to allow me to partake in your Beltane celebrations. If not for your kindness, I should have spent the day in the wild with only my horse for company. In comparison to that sad fate, this gift seems the least I could do.” James titled his eyebrow at Francis after he finished, as if to say _satisfied_? Francis’ own brow lifted, a smile tugging at his lips.

Thomas glanced between the two of them, clearly having picked up on the under current of silent conversation. “I see. In that case, we can only express our gratitude. Allow me to fetch you some refreshments.” He threw another small smile at Francis and headed off toward the food.

“You truly are a stubborn thing, aren’t you,” James said after he was gone, a little wondrous. Francis snorted.

“I’m the stubborn one?” he asked. “Besides, your coin will mean far more here than it would for me.”

“And if they become the target of bandits?” James asked. Francis shot him a look.

“Thomas is too smart to advertise its presence. The village will be safe enough.”

And James couldn’t deny they clearly needed it. The village was doing well enough, and the people were cheerful and happy, but many of the roofs were in need of rethatching and James could see one wall in the midst of a slow collapse and a pig pen that needed repairing, just from where he was standing. Francis’ decision to leave the coin here would make a huge difference in these people’s lives.

Thomas returned presently, with a plate piled high with food and the coin purse nowhere in sight, and he and Francis fell easily into conversation. They weren’t excluding James, and in fact asked for his opinion on many village past times he couldn’t possibly comment on, but James felt oddly wrong-footed anyway. This conversation, this place, did not seem the place to talk of any of his past exploits; the killing of a griffin or a wyvern meant little to these people other than the safety of being able to go about their usual lives. And even seeing their poverty first hand, James was uncomfortably aware that he would never have made the decision Francis had made today.

James tired of the feeling quickly. “Would either of you care for a drink?”

Thomas looked at Francis first before the both of them shook their heads.

“Then I will fetch one for myself and return shortly,” James said and bowed as he excused himself.

He took his time returning and fell into conversations with the villagers that he passed. He’d just finished his ale and was thinking about getting another and finally returning to Francis when he was accosted by Audofleda, who seized his arm and dragged him toward the dancers. The rest of the night passed in a blur and James didn’t see Francis once.

_

James woke to the chirping of birds and the sun glaring in his face. He opened his eyes blearily; the world seemed to whirl around him before settling into a familiar forest clearing. There was a blanket tossed over him, and his armor lay nearby. He looked over his shoulder and there was Francis’ little cottage, exactly where he expected it to be.

How did he get here? The last thing he remembered from the night before was dancing in the lines, hands joined with the village men on either side of him. That was miles from here, but here he was, sprawled on Francis’ front step with flowers braided in his hair.

He heard a whickering sound and turned to get a face full of horse breath. Clio lipped at the flowers in James’ hair until he gently pushed her muzzle away. Well, that seemed to explain how he’d gotten here. Maybe he could leave before Francis noticed he’d somehow followed him home. All it would take would be getting up from the ground, which now seemed a herculean task.

“I’ve never known a man to be able to ride so gracefully as drunk as you were last night,” Francis’ voice said from behind him, and James closed his eyes in a wince.

“One of your knightly talents, I presume,” Francis continued when James didn’t say anything. James twisted to look back at the cottage again, eyes squinting against the sight of Francis standing casually in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. He snorted at whatever expression was on James’ face, and descended the front steps to hand the mug to him.

“Here, you’ll feel better after you drink this,” he said. James took the mug and drank greedily, suddenly incredibly thirsty, and immediately wanted to spit it out. Whatever it was, was not tea, as he’d mistakenly believed. He shot a look at Francis and was surprised to see the smile on his face. James must make quite the sorry sight, to make Francis look so amused.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Francis said, “it makes you look ridiculous.”

“I’m not pouting,” James said sullenly. “I’m a knight. Knights don’t pout.”

“My mistake,” Francis said, and his voice wobbling slightly with suppressed laughter. He crouched next to James, reaching out a hand to gently tip the bottom of the mug back toward James’ mouth. “Finish it. It truly will make you feel better.”

James sighed heavily. “If I must.” With great reluctance, he finished the rest of the revolting mixture. Remarkably, he did begin to feel a bit better, the world settling around him and his head becoming clearer.

“Magic?” he asked Francis. Francis shook his head wryly, his continuing smile softening to something more fond.

“A concoction a friend of mine created. Perfect for helping drunken fools get back on their feet.”

James groaned heartedly, embarrassment rushing back to him. “Please tell me I didn’t humiliate myself last night.”

Francis laughed. “No more than anyone else did. You didn’t insult any young women and their families if that’s what concerns you. Though your insistence on making sure I got home safely was very chivalrous of you. As was your offer to stay outside and guard the house, though I think you lose points for that by falling asleep after a half hour.”

James could feel himself flushing, absolutely mortified. A mage of Francis’ powers could never need James to protect him, especially when James was so soused it was a surprise he hadn’t fallen off Clio halfway here.

“I’m not usually like that,” James said stiffly.

“No one is before they have Audofleda’s homebrew; one glass is enough to put a bear on his back.”

James thought he vaguely remembered Audofleda putting a mug of clear liquid in his hands and sighed again. “I apologize for the imposition.”

Francis shook his head, still grinning. “It was no imposition.” He cocked a brow. “I haven’t laughed like that in years.”

And indeed, there was more humour in Francis’ face than there usually was when they saw each other. Maybe it was simply Francis’ enjoyment of James’ pain, coupled with the lack of serious injury, but it put James in the mind of how Francis had looked yesterday when talking to Thomas: amused, fond, content.

“I suppose you were wise enough not to try the homebrew,” he said, his mood reluctantly brightening now although the embarrassment still ran hot beneath his skin.

Francis nodded, a shadow passing over his face like a cloud over the sun. “In a way.” He stood and offered a hand to James. James grasped it and let Francis haul him to his feet, standing still for a long moment to let the world resettle as he became vertical.

“You’re welcome to sleep the rest off inside. Use an actual bed,” Francis said, letting his hand go.

James shook his head—as much as Francis had tried to reassure he hadn’t made a fool of himself, he was still eager to leave last night and his regrettable decision to indulge in excess behind him. “No, I must head back to the castle. I wasn’t meant to be gone so long.”

Francis nodded, his smile receding like the tide. “Of course. The court musn’t be kept waiting.”

“Yes,” James said, and turned towards Clio and his piled armor. The thought of putting it on was a horrible one.

“Although,” Francis said, a note of discomfort in his voice, “it would be foolish to ride so long without breaking your fast.” James turned to look at him, and the discomfort in his voice was painted on his face. James made a sudden, possibly reckless, decision.

“If that’s an invitation, I’d be a fool to decline it.”

James watched as Francis seemed to hesitate for a second, eyes searching James’ face, before a smile slowly broke over his face.

_

They had breakfast and lingered together over tea and conversation. They fell into a light-hearted argument over something James had heard at the village and James felt himself start to relax as Francis expounded on his points with the occasional tap on the table. He’d worried by letting himself get so drunk in front of Francis he might lose any respect he’d managed to win from him, but if anything he seemed easier with James now, as if James’ inebriated self had finally managed to climb some wall around Francis’ heart.

It was a good feeling, and it caused James to linger so long that Francis insisted he stay the night rather than risk riding back to the castle in the dark. He bedded down in the familiar little sick room and slept well.

James had little intention of going back to Francis’ cottage; after all, he’d finally settled his debt to the man, albeit not in the way he expected. But he found himself doing so anyway—any time he was in the area around Francis’ cottage, he inevitably turned Clio toward that little meadow. Usually, he had the excuse of an injury, although these became more and more feeble—Francis had looked at him very oddly when he’d climbed off Clio claiming a broken ankle when it was clearly only a sprain. But he treated all of James’ injuries with the same eagle eyed focus, as if the smallest wounds were as grave as the ones James bore when they’d initially met.

It was a strange friendship, unlike any James had at court. Francis seemed to care so little for their stations and still seemed so disinterested in James’ activities at court. He’d listen to James’ stories of his exploits with a patiently indulgent look and James found himself embellishing them less than he would when telling the same story at court. What did it matter if he told Francis he’d been terrified when facing the griffin, or that the reason the ghoul had gotten such a good hit was because James had slipped in the mud? Francis listened either way, interjecting with wry asides and sly humour at just the right moments. It quickly became a pleasure to tell Francis stories, and James could do it without thought, without wondering about the impression he was leaving behind by doing so. It was nice to be with someone who’s good opinion did not need to be courted.

And he did have Francis’ good opinion, he realized one evening when they were sharing a meal, yet again. He hadn’t been sure for the longest time what Francis was actually getting out of their visits, other than a man to talk at him. But looking at Francis, seated across the table from him and smiling easily, a smile that James had once considered hard-won, James realized the man had changed drastically since their first meeting. Francis had once been all scowls and terse words, for all the world a humourless man incapable of a single smile. But James had misjudged him, or hadn’t perceived the truth maybe. Francis was lonely; James gathered he had been alone for the seven years since he had come to this cottage. Maybe he’d simply lost the ability and the inclination to be around other people if he wasn’t actively treating them. And yet James had been let in and allowed to stay.

For James, it was like living two lives. When he was in court, he was Sir James, a knight in King Barrow’s service and favored by Sir John. He comported himself properly, playing light hearted pranks as was his wont, enthralled his fellows with his encounters with magical creatures and his slaying of them. And then there was James outside of the court, who was content to sit by a fire with only one man for company and discuss the intricacies of treating venomous bites without a thought to what came next, what the new quest was and how the story should be spun.

The realization lingered with him all the way back to the court. By the time he arrived, he was already planning to see Francis again.

_

A good two months after Beltane, James found himself perusing some wares at a market in one of the larger towns, having struck out on the rumors of a wraith in a nearby manor house. He was making his way leisurely back to the castle, in no particular hurry on such a beautiful summer’s day. He wandered away from a baker’s cart, taking small bites of his freshly purchased tart and at the jeweller’s cart. There were a decent amount of items, delicate necklaces and pretty rings making it sparkle in the sunlight. He let his eyes wander over it all, until his gaze caught on a brooch. It was a silver circle, with a creature crouching at the bottom and the pin was carved to appear as a sword. James leaned in closer and saw the creature was a surprisingly life-like griffin, with what looked like emeralds for eyes.

“That one’s a special one,” the jeweller said, obviously smelling a potential sale.

“The craftsmanship is beautiful,” James said, letting his fingers run across the carved feathers of the griffon, the sharp hook of the beak.

“It’s yours for 15 shillings,” the jeweller said. It was a more than reasonable price, if the eyes were truly emeralds.

James looked at the griffin, remembered the feel of claws in his flesh, the sharp certainty that his life would end, and the sight of blue eyes through the haze of pain. “I’ll take it.”

It was a foolish and impulsive purchase, James let himself admit later on the road to Francis’ cottage. The desire to give it to Francis was surely even more foolish, and a vain hope. Francis would no more likely accept a gift of jewellery than he would one of coin.

He pulled Clio to a stop in the middle of the road and sighed. He wanted to see Francis, for no other reason than that he enjoyed the man’s company. He even thought Francis may feel the same way, judging by the increasing frequency of his small smiles and fond looks, even while he was tending his wounds and lecturing James to be more careful.

James let the broach rest in his palm, the silver glinting in the sunlight. He sighed again before wrapping it back up and burying it in his saddlebag. He needn’t have an excuse to visit Francis; if he wanted to see him, he would simply go and let Francis make of that what he would. But he would not go today and he would not try to give Francis this brooch only to make it awkward for the both of them.

He’d find some other use for it eventually.

_

James found it difficult to settle his mind after that, despite the beauty of the day, and turned Clio back toward the court, rather than find someplace to while away the daylight and sleep for the night. He arrived at the castle town just before the supper hour and slowed Clio to a walk as they made their way through the streets to the castle.

As soon as James entered the keep, he knew something had happened. Servants were bustling around with more fervor than usual – he could see some shaking out tapestries, others carting platters of food, even others scrubbing the floors. He paused, looking around at all the commotion, and spotted a familiar face.

“Goodsir!” he called and hurried over to the man.

“Sir James, you’ve made it back in time,” Goodsir replied, sounding relieved. He looked the same as he always did, hair mussed from running his fingers through it and scrolls heaped in his arms.

“In time for what? I didn’t realize we were hosting anyone,” James said, stepping closer to Goodsir to avoid a clump of servants hefting a table.

Goodsir shook his head, eyes shifting nervously to the servants until they passed out of earshot. “We’re not.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “The king has had a vision.”

“A vision?” James said, a quiver of excitement jolting up his back.

Goodsir nodded gravely. “Yes. The Holy Grail, it’s said. He’s summoned all the court knights to appear before him tonight at the evening meal. I worried you might not make it.”

The Grail. King Barrow had seen the grail again, just as he had seven years past. And now he was gathering the knights, turning the castle on its head, because-

“He wants to go after it again,” James realized.

Goodsir nodded. “I believe so.”

A quest for the Grail, only the second that had ever been attempted. James hadn’t yet been at the court when the last quest was attempted and ended in so much death and misery.

“Has Sir Ross returned?” James asked. Sir Ross was the only knight of any note who had been on the previous quest that hadn’t perished in its pursuit. The last James had heard, he had gone to settle with his lady wife on his father’s estate after the quest survivors returned in shambles. He hadn’t been back to the court since, although not for lack of wishing on the king’s part, if the rumours could be trusted.

Goodsir shook his head. “No, sir. I believe the king has sent a dispatch, but I doubt Sir Ross will return.” He paused before continuing hesitantly. “I saw him when he returned from the last quest, Sir James. I doubt any promise of riches or renown could bring him back.”

James nodded; it only confirmed the court rumours. The ones that stated Sir Ross was a changed man when he returned, whose hands shook so bad at first he could barely lift his glass to his mouth without spilling.

“I didn’t realize you were at court already during the previous quest,” James said. He should have, really; he himself had come to court five years ago and Goodsir had already been present when he arrived.

“Yes, I-” Goodsir cut himself off, obviously spotting something over James’ shoulder. James turned and saw Sir John approaching them.

“Sir John,” he said warmly, bowing deeply.

“Good to see you, James,” Sir John replied, returning the bow and stepping in to grip James’ elbow in greeting. “Good to see you, indeed. I’m glad you’ve arrived in time.”

“Yes, Goodsir was just informing me. I’ve missed quite the auspicious occasion.”

Sir John smiled. “Yes, we’ve all been in quite the flurry today since the king summoned us together. It’s an exciting occasion, and I’m glad you’re here to take part in it.”

And to think, he almost hadn’t been. If he’d followed his earlier impulse, he’d be cozy in Francis’ cabin right now, this thoughts far from the court and its goings-on, no matter how important.

“As am I, Sir John. Shall we?” James gestured behind him to the great hall. Sir John nodded and they set off together, bidding farewell to Goodsir.

There were already a good number of knights and courtiers assembled, though more were trailing into the room, followed by court ladies and other officials. James even saw a few servants trying to appear busy fiddling with items along the wall just as clearly eager to hear what the king had to say. James followed Sir John to the front of the hall where some of the other knights were gathered and talking together.

They didn’t have long to wait - the court announcer stepped forward and loudly proclaimed the king’s arrival. The assemblage all took a knee as King Barrow entered the room, sweeping grandly to his throne. He sat, gazing at the knights assembled in front of him and gestured for the crowd to rise. James straightened under his eyes and wished he’d had a chance to buff his armor prior to this audience – he knew it was nicked and dulled after his hours of travel.

“I believe you all already know why you are here,” Barrow began, looking each of the knights in the eye in turn. “The Grail has appeared before me, in a vision of golden light.”

Some of the knights shifted where they stood, and James saw Sir Irving and Sir Little, off to his right, exchange looks with each other.

“In my dreams,” Barrow continued, his voice carrying through the hall, “I saw a golden goblet, adorned with gemstones, appear before me in this very hall. A voice spoke, and bade the Grail be found. For whosoever possesses the Grail will be found pure before God, and blessings will follow after.”

Barrow paused, and silence fell in the hall. No one moved.

“I have brought you here, to charge whoever is willing, with this mighty quest. Find the Grail, for the good of the kingdom.” Barrow looked around at the assembled knights, his eyes keen and searching. “Who will take up this sacred duty?”

Next to him, Sir John stepped forward. “I will, my king.” Barrow bowed his head in acknowledgement.

“Very well. Sir John will lead the quest. And you others?”

James stepped up, matching his place beside Sir John. Excitement roiled under his skin, that familiar feeling that always gripped him when some new adventure appeared before him, whether it be a monster or a quest. “I will go, my king. For the kingdom’s honour.” Barrow smiled.

Other knights stepped forward, echoing James’ words. Soon enough, there were five of them: Sir Irving, Sir Little, and Sir Gore had all stepped forward to join James and Sir John.

Barrow nodded deeply to them all. “You five will be representatives of our kingdom on this noble quest. You will depart in four days time, with my blessing. For now, gather your squires, bid farewell to your lady wives, and make your prayers. We will have a feast in three days to commemorate your departure.”

The assembled knights all bowed deeply, murmuring their acknowledgements and beginning to leave the room. James began to follow them and paused as a thought suddenly occurred to him. He hesitated, unsure whether to bring it up but – everything he had heard about the previous indicated seeking the Grail was a dangerous, if worthy, endeavour. They could use the help, even if it was slightly unorthodox.

And then it was too late to make his own decision – the king had noticed his hesitation.

“Sir James,” he said, “what troubles you?”

James heard some of the other knights pause in their exit, curious. He swallowed and hoped he didn’t regret this. “Nothing troubles me, your majesty. I had just wondered if we might make use of all resources available to us in pursuit of this worthy goal.” He paused. “Including magical aid.”

Barrow frowned and James suppressed his immediate worry he’d mistepped. “We have no courtly mage, Sir James, and for good reason. Mages are a nasty lot, full of trickery and deceit. They care nothing for honour.”

James had half expected this response; after all, the last mage that had served Barrow’s court had fled it in ignominious defeat under mysterious circumstances. All James himself knew for certain was that the mage had accompanied the previous quest and been among one of the few to return. The rest was all shrouded in rumour but knew the man had displeased Barrow greatly. The king had yet to trust another mage.

James persisted. “I understand, my king, but I am not speaking of any mage. There is a man I know, who works as a healer in the Ursan Woods, serving the nearby villages.” James swallowed nervously. “He is a good man, my king, he cares nothing for riches or renown, only for the care and keeping of the kingdom’s people.”

Barrow eyed him. “You vouch for this man?”

James nodded. “Yes. He saved my life with no promise of reward, and demanded nothing in return for his service. He would do this quest, and your kingdom, credit.”

Barrow paused for a long moment, gazing at James searchingly. Finally, he nodded. “You are right that this quest is dangerous, and mages can be useful, as long as they are watched. Go fetch this man. I’d like to meet him.”

James bowed deeply. “Yes, my king. Immediately.” He turned, and left the great hall behind the other knights.

Sir John stopped him outside the hall. “That was a good thought, James. Few would have been willing to make the suggestion.”

“We all know this quest will be dangerous. I thought it best to gain what aid we can before setting out,” James said. It was true, to a certain extent. It did seem wisdom to garner what allies they could to join them; the more powerful, the better.

And if that was not James’ sole reason for thinking of Francis in the great hall, if there was a deeper reason underneath that made his mind jump to Francis in that moment, that was not something he needed to share.

“And do you think this mage will join us?” Sir John asked.

“I am not entirely sure. He’s not one for grand courts,” James said, a smile sprouting on his face at the thought of Francis in these grand halls. He’d be quickly overwhelmed; James would simply have to serve as his guide.

“Well, I’m sure he will. He must be of good character to make such an impression on you,” Sir John said. James nodded, thinking of all their nights spent together by the fire, the way Francis’ eyes seemed to darken in the dim light, the crinkles that deepened around his eyes when he laughed.

“He is. But you must excuse me, Sir John. I’ll need to set out early to fetch him.”

Sir John waved his hand. “Of course, James. Sleep well.”

James bowed and set off for his chambers. His thoughts, as seemed inevitable, turned to Francis again as he performed his nightly ablutions and tucked himself into bed. He imagined seeing Francis tomorrow. He imagined the two of them riding out together, on this grand adventure, seeking glory side by side. He imagined them out in the wild, by the fire together at night, and Francis’ dark eyes.

_

Francis came out of the cottage as soon as James rode up, hurrying down the steps as James dismounted.

“What is it,” Francis asked, “don’t tell me you’ve run afoul of another creature already.” He started looking James over critically, eyes searching for any telltale signs of blood.

James felt an abrupt surge of fondness for this man. “No, Francis, I’m alright. I-“

He stopped, suddenly unsure how to continue. He’d spent the entire journey pushing Clio for swiftness and going over how he would broach the topic to Francis, what words he would use to convince Francis to come back with him. He knew thoughts of grandeur would move Francis little, and he’d come to understand that personal honour and glory held little appeal for this man, nor would fine language. Plain words were best.

Francis was still staring at him questioningly, his brow furrowed.

“Francis,” James said, “the king has had a vision. We’re to go questing for the Grail. I’d like you to come with us.”

Francis’ expression shut down immediately, all worry replaced with a stony visage James had never seen before. “No,” he grit out, “no.” He turned and stomped back up the stairs into the cottage.

James swept up the stairs in pursuit, pushing his way through the door before Francis could shut it in his face. Francis stormed away, coming to a halt in front of the hearth. His shoulders were so hunched with tension they were practically at his ears. James tried to edge to the side, to better see Francis’ expression, but he managed to shift just enough to deny James a glimpse of it.

There was nothing for it but to go through. “The king saw the Grail, Francis, but the quest is a dangerous one. It was attempted by some of our greatest knights years ago and many perished. Having a mage of your ability would be a great boon for us.”

Francis laughed harshly, turning to face James. There was a wildness in his eyes. “Like it helped then?”

James frowned. He hadn’t been aware rumors of the previous quest had spread this far from the court. “I don’t rightly know what happened back then. But I trust you, Francis. You’ll see us through it.”

Francis scoffed loudly, his expression bitter. “Trust will not bring you through this alive,” he spat, glaring at James with fire in his eyes. “Nothing will, except abandoning foolish hope. That cup is cursed.”

James huffed. “Whatever rumours you’ve heard, you were misled. The Grail is not cursed, Francis, it’s blessed, a gift from God. It will be a blessing for the kingdom, bringing prosperity to the land and its peoples.”

“To the land or to Barrow?” Francis asked sharply, turning back to the hearth.

James leaned in, trying to catch Francis’ eye. “This is an honourable charge, Francis. Personal gain is not a motive for anyone involved.”

Francis snorted derisively, and let his gaze meet James’ again. There was a mean look there, something James hadn’t seen even in the beginning when Francis was still cool to him. “Oh, is it not? I suppose you’ve signed on to this for completely altruistic reasons, no thought as to how it will boost your own reputation?”

James stared at him silently, hurt and anger beating in his breast. Much as he wanted to, something deep within him would not allow him to deny Francis’ accusation. But it hurt all the same to hear it stated so bluntly, and from someone James did not expect to hear it. 

“I can see you won’t listen to reason. It was a mistake to come here,” James finally said and quietly exited the cottage. He had enough pride to refrain from slamming the door behind him like some sulking child.

He descended the stairs unseeing, immediately crossing to Clio with the thought of leaving immediately. He reached her and she butted her muzzle into his shoulder with a welcoming whinny. His hands drifted up to stroke through her mane and over her forehead without his consent, the hair soft on his fingers.

Damn the man anyway. He was miserly and lonely, and any thought of honour or duty had departed his mind long ago. What could the quest mean to him, other than the necessity of leaving this pretence of a home behind and having to interact with the world he’d apparently rejected so thoroughly?

James knew it was unfair even as he thought it. Francis knew duty well, so well that he’d allowed himself to be chained to his existence here. It was a noble calling, James knew, to help the poor, but Francis was frankly wasted here. He could be more with his talent, have men around the country telling his own tales rather than listening to James’. He could be a great man rather than a healer of peasants who barely got by. Could he not see the value in that?

Francis was smart, he was astute and perceptive. Perceptive enough to see into the heart of James, the part of him that thought so cunningly about his own advancement, the part that had immediately seen this quest not as a way to help the people and the kingdom, but as a path to his own glory. If Francis could see that so clearly, how could he not see the rest?

The door of the cottage creaked behind him and James turned to see Francis standing just inside the doorway. He stared at James for a long moment, a dark look on his face, before he spoke.

“This quest,” he said quietly, “you’re going with or without me.”

“Yes,” James said, just as quietly.

Francis said nothing, only stared as if trying to see into James’ soul. James waited and let himself be seen.

Francis dropped his gaze. “Wait there. I’ll pack a bag.”

_

Francis emerged presently with a packed bag and a walking staff with a crook on the top. He fetched his mule, tacking him up and tying on his belongings before mounting. All the while, he said not a word. James watched him, equally silent. When Francis was ready, James turned Clio and headed out of the clearing. He only let himself glance back at Francis once as they left the clearing, just to make sure he was still there. Francis was glancing over his shoulder at the little cottage, watching it recede behind them with a forlorn expression. James looked away.

“We’ll need to stop and see Thomas,” Francis said after a few minutes of riding. “He’ll let the others know that I’m gone.”

Of course; Francis was the primary healer for the people in these parts. If he was gone, they would need to travel farther to get help. James hadn’t thought of that when he’d decided to make his request.

“You’ll be back with them soon,” he said quietly, glancing back at him. Francis met his gaze for a long moment before looking away.

The stop to see Thomas was quick - Francis went into his hut alone and for only a few minutes. James stayed outside with Clio and Francis’ mule, certain it was not his place to follow. Francis emerged with Thomas in tow. They said nothing to each other; Francis put his hands on Thomas’ shoulders, giving him the slightest of shakes. Then Francis let go and mounted his mule, turning back to the road.

James nodded to Thomas in farewell. Thomas did not nod back, only stared at James with his unearthly eyes. James felt those eyes on him still as they left the village behind them. 

It was a long night - James had left the castle while the dawn was still young to arrive at Francis’ cottage in the early evening. If they wanted to reach the castle, they would need to ride through the night and James’ body was already aching from being on a horse for so long.

But Francis seemed unwilling to stop for more than the occasional rest for the animals. They carried on through the night, regardless of the danger of passing beasts, and as the sun set and darkness set in, Francis let an orb of light sprout from the palm of his hand to hover before them and light their way.

They arrived at the castle in the late morning, having taken a rest sometime close to dawn. James had slept only briefly, but he suspected Francis of working some magic on Clio and his mule for she was as eager to set off when he awoke as a lively filly. Whatever he’d done, Francis had decided James was not in need of it for James still felt as wretchedly tired when he awoke as when he fell asleep. Even as they approached the castle, his eyes felt raw as if they’d been open for too long.

James leapt off Clio as they drew near, intensely relieved to be out of the saddle. He handed her reins to the stablehand approaching him and gestured to Francis’ mule.

“Care for our mounts. Make sure Francis’ receives the finest treatment.”

The stablehand, to his credit, didn’t look confused at being ordered to give a mule the royal treatment. He simply took the reins from Francis’ hands, who seemed to let them go reluctantly.

“I’ll have your things put in the quarters assigned to you,” James said to Francis, who was staring at the castle as if he’d never seen a building so high before. He looked far out of his depth; James wanted to reassure him, but the words to do so escaped him. They’d barely spoken the night through, and James was unsure if the anger Francis had expressed back in his cottage still lingered. It felt like it did. “It’s a lot to take in, I know,” he finally said, and hoped he sounded less awkward to Francis than he felt.

Francis’s brow arched briefly but he said nothing. James sighed to himself and gestured to the castle. “Let’s go see the king.”

Francis sighed deeply, tightening his grip on the staff he’d brought with him. “Yes. Let’s get this over with.” He followed James meekly inside the castle, his eyes darting to and fro, seeming determined to take in every detail, from the servants to the tapestries. James saw how some of the servant’s eyes lingered overly long on Francis, eyes catching on his staff, and hoped that the castle population wouldn’t react negatively to having a mage in their midst.

He strode toward the throne room, and announced himself to the page outside, who nodded and headed in to let the king know James had returned with his guest. Francis stepped up next to him, his face uneasy.

The page returned presently, holding the door open so the two of them could enter. James stepped in first, hearing Francis follow behind him with halting steps.

“Sir James, son of Robert, with expected guest,” the page announced, and slipped out. Barrow was seated on his throne, a few guards stationed nearby. He began to smile at James in greeting before his eyes slipped past him to Francis and the smile was replaced with a snarl.

“This is the mage you have decided to bring before me? The one you wish to accompany you on this quest?” Barrow’s voice was full of scorn, his eyes fixed on Francis.

“Yes, my king,” James said, his tone unchanging even as his stomach fell in sudden dread at the unexpected hostility. His gaze flicked to Francis – he was glaring with all his considerable might at Barrow, as if he wished to set the man aflame where he sat. An act which was probably not outside of Francis’ ability.

King Barrow looked like he would dearly love to return the favour. “This man has no place in my presence, or in this castle,” the king spat. “A lesson we all learned well seven years ago.”

Seven years ago. James looked at Francis, an awful suspicion beginning to coalesce in his mind. Francis shot him a quick glance and James was almost unsurprised at the shame he saw there.

Of course. Of course the one mage James happened to meet would be the same mage who had accompanied the original quest so many years ago, the same who, if the rumours were to be believed, had conducted himself shamefully on said quest and helped sow it’s destruction. The one who had left the court in scandal and who Barrow had declared was to never return.

James tore his eyes from Francis, looking back at Barrow. The king was still glaring at Francis. “Sir James, I believe you’ve brought this mage before me in ignorance, which I will excuse. But he is not to remain under my roof.”

“My king, if I may,” James said quickly, without thinking, “I understand your reluctance to have Francis accompany this quest. But I still believe a mage will be a great help for us. I swear Francis is reliable.”

What on earth was he doing, standing up for this man, who had neglected to tell him something so vital, who had let him walk into this audience blind, without even a thought toward the humiliation it would bring James? Whatever Francis’ thoughts about the court, and possibly about this court in particular, he should have known better than to let James act so foolishly without any knowledge as to what he was doing. James thought he’d earned better from Francis than that.

Barrow stared down at James, his face stony and remote. Finally, he said, “You swear? On your honour as my knight?”

James didn’t look at Francis, too certain that his anger with him would show in his eyes. “Yes, my king.”

Barrow nodded. “Very well. The mage will accompany you then. But be certain, Sir James, he is to do exactly as you say, when you say. He is to do nothing that does not come from your mouth first.” His eyes flicked to Francis. “Is that understood?”

Francis stood silent and motionless for a moment, before ducking his head in the barest of nods. James suppressed a flinch at the disrespect – even from a mage, considered outside the regular court hierarchy, it was barely above abject disobedience.

But Barrow seemed to accept it, albeit grudgingly.

“Know this,” he said, still glaring at Francis, “the only reason I suffer you to be in my presence, to go on this noble quest at all, is because Sir James has taken responsibility for your miserable hide and because Sir Ross swore our past failure was not your doing. I pray my faith is not misplaced.”

Francis continued to stay silent, unmoving, eyes straight ahead, as if he hadn’t even heard Barrow’s words.

Barrow leaned back on the throne, flicking a hand in dismissal. “Begone. Sir James, find the mage a room. I expect you both to attend the feast tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to Francis. “I’m sure you’ll see many familiar faces there, Crozier.”

James flinched in surprise at the name, and barely saw Francis do the same out of the corner of his eye. James knew that name, had heard it spoken in whispers throughout his many years at court, but he did not know that name as Francis. He flicked his eyes at the crooked staff that had not left Francis’ side since they departed his cottage. A crozier.

James truly was a fool.

James bowed deeply to the king, absently glad for his deeply ingrained sense of courtesy which allowed him to act as he should even as his mind whirled. He turned to leave, aware of Francis at his side.

“Sir James, a moment,” Barrow called. James glanced at Francis, who looked at him ever so quickly before leaving the throne room.

“Yes, my king?”

Barrow looked at him for a long moment, his gaze considering. “I can see you did not know that man as Crozier. Let this be a lesson to you in the trickster nature of all mages.”

James nodded, making sure any trace of the roil of his emotions was absent from his expression. “Yes, my king.”

“And Sir James. I have made you responsible for that man. I understand he is a friend, of a kind, to you, that you may have fond feelings toward him. But never forget, your primary duty is to me and this kingdom.” Barrow stared at him for a long moment. “You are responsible for the man. If any of his actions or his words begin to interfere with the quest and your duty, you are responsible for that too, and must act to secure the kingdom’s interests in any way you must.”

The words fell on him heavily, as if the king was placing a physical weight on his shoulders. James nodded again, his expression varying not an inch. “I understand my king.”

Barrow waved his hand in dismissal again. “Good. Now, you may go.”

James obeyed, leaving the room. He emerged to the usual bustle of the castle, servants passing by on their duties, courtiers speaking business in corners. James wondered if it was his newfound knowledge of Francis’ true identity that made him see something secretive and hushed in their movements, made him feel eyes on his back.

He took a deep breath, and glanced around again. The news would spread, yes, but it could not possibly have spread that quickly. In a few hours, it would be another matter entirely. By evening, the castle would be positively thrumming with gossip, something James usually looked forward to. It was less exciting when he knew the gossip would contain his own name.

James let his breath out in a sigh and glanced around again. There was one thing conspicuous in its absence, the thing he wanted to see the most right now, if only to demand answers.

Francis was nowhere to be seen.

_

It didn’t take long to determine that Francis had been escorted to a room in the usual guest quarters in James’ absence. James took it as a good sign that the King hadn’t had Francis taken to a cell instead. As it was, he wasn’t even to be kept under guard.

James had been right, though; it didn’t take long for the news of Francis’ presence to spread throughout the castle. James was stopped multiple times on his way back to his chambers by other knights, ladies, and courtiers, all bubbling with questions about where and how he had met the infamous Crozier. Most of the usual residents of the castle were already familiar with James’ telling of his encounter with the griffin; it was simple to add a small addendum about the mage who had helped heal him. James did not mention their many visits afterward, the way he’d come to see Francis has a friend. He thought about the brooch, still wrapped in his saddlebag, and smiled at the ladies gathered before him, before offering to retell his griffin story.

It worked like a charm, as it always did.

By the time James reached his room, he was desperate to clean up and heartily sick of himself. He quickly arranged for a bath and busied himself with unpacking as the servants brought up the water. The brooch was quickly put away in a drawer, still in its little packet. James decided to put it from his mind, focusing on getting his armor and equipment sent off to be cared for and dispatching a note to Sir John regarding their plans for the upcoming quest.

Before the bath was even finished being drawn, Sir John had found his way to James’ chambers, his usual affable expression disturbed by a crease in his brow. He greeted James warmly enough, although James could see his mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Did you receive my note already, Sir John?” James asked.

Sir John nodded. “Indeed. In fact, I was already on my way to you. I needed to confirm with you—is it true? Is Francis truly here?”

James stared at him—it was the first time he’d heard the name he knew Francis by out of another’s mouth since they arrived here. “Yes.”

Sir John sighed; James could not tell if it was in relief or disappointment.

“You know him,” James said, for the knowledge was clear in Sir John’s face.

“I did,” Sir John said, something rueful shading his expression. “When he was the court’s mage, many years ago. We were friends then, but I haven’t seen or spoken to him in many years. I’m curious, how did you meet him?”

James wanted to ask questions of his own, but made himself hold his tongue; instead, he expounded on his griffin story the same as he had done for all the others. When James described the little cottage Francis lived in, Sir John frowned.

“It’s a truly odd thing, how people change,” he said musingly, “when I knew Francis, I could not imagine him being happy in such a place. He always seemed to want so much from the world.”

James swallowed and unconsciously redirected the conversation, as he usually did when he did not know what to say.

Soon enough, the bath was ready, and Sir John left him. James slowly undressed and sunk into the warm water and let himself start to acknowledge the past few hours.

He was confused, a confusion that Sir John had only worsened with his few comments. As faded as the image had been, the Francis Sir John envisioned seemed entirely different from the man James knew. That man seemed to hardly want anything from the world, other than to be left alone to his solitude.

All these months he thought he was learning Francis, forming some kind of bond. Did he truly know Francis at all? Maybe he didn’t, because he could not have imagined the Francis he thought of as a friend hiding something in his past as massive as this. He could not see the man who had so studiously cared for his wounds letting that lack of knowledge bring James to humiliation in front of the king. As much as Barrow seemed to be willing to forget the debacle, knowing Francis could have simply told him and avoided it all stung.

Why did Francis come here at all?

James became aware he was sitting motionless in cooling water, staring sightlessly at the wall in front of him while his mind raced. He turned to scrubbing himself, working thoroughly and quickly. He was suddenly desperate for answers.

He dried and dressed himself numbly, his mind already walking down the halls toward Francis. He was out his door shortly, leaving the bathwater for the servants to clear away. He headed toward the guest quarters at a careful clip, sharp enough to discourage people from stopping him but not so fast as to look like he was in a hurry or spark concern.

He arrived in the guest wing only to realize he did not know which of the chambers Francis had been quartered in. Looking at the long line of doors, he’d just resigned himself to finding a servant to direct him, when he heard steps coming up behind him.

Without thought, James ducked around a corner and out of sight. It was a foolish gesture, he knew even as he was doing it—he was a knight of the court and had a right to go where he wished in the castle. But he found himself curiously unwilling to be seen and the thought of engaging in pleasantries was a difficult one to bear. Although it was probably only a servant, the same he would need to seek out to locate Francis in the first place, and he was about to feel very foolish for the second time today.

James heard steps in the corridor and peeked around the corner, wanting to get a glimpse of where this person was going. His eyes widened as he took in Lady Sophia, Sir John’s ward, looking at the many doors just as he had been doing just a minute before. She passed James’ hiding spot without a glance and paused in front of the fifth door. She lingered there for a long moment, unmoving—James couldn’t see her face from this angle. Finally, she lifted a hand and tapped on the door.

James could dimly hear footsteps from inside the room and the door opened to reveal Francis, still covered in dust from the road. His eyes widened when he saw Lady Sophia, and they stood and stared at each other in silence.

“Will you invite me in?” Lady Sophia eventually said. Her usual poised tone shook ever so slightly.

Francis said nothing in reply, but he stepped back from the doorway and gestured her inside. The door closed behind her and James was left alone in the corridor with even more questions that he’d had before.

James lingered in his hiding spot, for long minutes that stretched on unending. But Lady Sophia did not emerge and eventually James took his leave.

_

James did not see Francis again that night. Nor did he see him the next day, although that was not all Francis’ fault, as James found himself in conversation with Sir John and the other knights making preparations for their upcoming journey.

After the end of another long meeting, James headed back to his chambers, intent on cleaning himself up for the feast the king had planned to celebrate their departure. He nodded at and greeted everyone he passed, although his heart was not in it, and he found his eyes constantly drifting over their shoulders, searching.

He was looking for Francis, he knew that. But every minute that passed without seeing him, the more James wondered if he actually wanted to see him. Much as he thought on it, he could not discover a reason for what he’d seen last night that was not scandalous in some way. Did Francis and Lady Sophia know each other from Francis’ time in court? They must have, for Sir John said he and Francis had been acquainted. Had they been friends then? Or something else entirely?

Judging by the expressions James had spied on their faces and the daring Lady Sophia had shown to go to his chambers at all, let alone unchaperoned, seemed to imply the latter.

It was a foolish thing to do; it was equally foolish of Francis to allow her to enter and to stay for who knows how long, when the king was already so displeased with him. It was an unnecessary risk to their reputations and to James’ by his association with Francis. It stung James all over again, anger beating in his breast until he was uncertain what he would say if Francis appeared before him.

Of course, the dawning realization that he might not actually want to see Francis at all, meant that same man was seated next to him at the feast table.

The knights attached to the quest were set up at a table at the head of the hall, on either side of the King. A place of honour, truly, although it quickly became clear Francis did not think so, judging by his sour expression.

Francis did not acknowledge James when he sat beside him, other than a quick meeting of their eyes. James bit down on his anger at the lack of greeting and resolved to pay it back in kind, greeting Sir John on his other side. Despite his resolve, he found himself uncomfortably aware of Francis’ presence, a part of his mind preoccupied with catching his every move.

But Francis sat still through the opening of the feast and the serving of the food, to which he applied himself with vigour. The only time he seemed animated beyond simple hunger was when he covered his goblet with his palm, stopping the servant from pouring him ale.

“Will you not drink, Francis?” Sir John said, leaning around James, apparently having noted it as well. Francis glanced at him, looking slightly shocked at suddenly being spoken to. James felt a flicker of guilt for ignoring Francis so thoroughly this evening, no matter how angry he was with him.

“No, Sir John,” Francis said, looking back at his plate. There was something awkward in his voice. “I found I’ve lost the taste for it.”

Sir John, not one for drink himself, nodding approvingly, a smile curling his lips. “I’m glad to hear it, Francis. I know it was a favourite pastime of yours and Sir Ross’, but it truly is a vulgar habit in over-indulgence.”

James allowed his mind to chase after the implications of that statement. Francis and Sir Ross had known each other, that James had inferred simply by way of them both being present on the previous quest. But to have Sir John imply that they had spent time together in casual circumstances, sharing a glass of whiskey or ale, was something else entirely.

The realization was almost enough to distract from the other implications of Sir John’s words, but for the way Francis seemed to bend beneath the words and the disconsolate way his fork scraped his plate. James found himself automatically searching for a way to shift the conversation, prompted by a spike of unwanted sympathy.

But Sir John continued before he had the chance.

“But truly, Francis, it has been too long,” Sir John said, his tone scolding in that paternal way he had. “I thought you might come visit sometime in the last seven years, or even send a message to us, but there was nothing.”

Francis’ fork paused it’s scraping. “I did not believe such a thing would be welcome,” he said, his tone carefully neutral in a way James recognized in his own mannerism when faced with something he did not know how to respond to. It was odd to hear it from Francis, who James had always known to speak bluntly and plainly, without artifice.

Sir John huffed. “Nonsense. Lady Jane and I worried over you, you must know.”

Francis smiled, a brief, bitter thing. “Did you?”

Sir John nodded solemnly, not seeming to react to his tone. “Yes, you left so abruptly we never even knew where you went. Even Sir Ross said he didn’t know.”

If it was possible, Francis’ expression dimmed even further, shading from discomfort to true misery. Again, James felt that spike of sympathy.

Sir John continued blithely. “For a while, we thought you might be with Sir Blanky,” Francis stiffened immediately, so much so James shot him a concerned look, “but he said he hadn’t seen you either.”

Francis turned to look intently at Sir John, leaning forward to peer around James. James leaned back in his chair as far as he was able; he wondered if it would be rude to let Francis switch seats with him, so he could at least eat some of his food before it went cold.

“You’ve spoken to him? To Thomas?” Francis said quickly, his tone urgent. James’ concern grew at the tone, as did his curiosity. He had never heard of this Blanky before, not even in court gossip. Yet another hole in his knowledge of Francis.

Sir John blinked, seemingly taken aback. “Why yes, of course. Haven’t you?”

Francis leaned back abruptly, leaning fully back into his own seat and out of James’ space. He looked down at his plate again, his expression gone blank.

There followed a long, awkward pause, and the chatter of other conversations and the minstrel and his lute started to penetrate their little circle. James scrambled for something to say to get this conversation, seeming determined to wreck on hidden shoals, back on track.

“It seems you have many friends here, Francis,” James finally said, and immediately knew he shouldn’t have. His tone was all wrong—instead of making an neutral observation, the words came out ever so slightly accusatory. And Francis noticed, damn it all, James could see that clearly in the hunted glance Francis shot at him.

Maybe it would be better if James held his tongue this evening, at least until he better organized his thoughts.

Sir John seemed not to have noticed the gaffe; he was nodding in whole-hearted support of James’ words.

“Yes, indeed Francis, you have many friends here. Friends who worried after you terribly these long years.”

Francis’s face twisted, the hunted look shifting into derisiveness. “How times change.”

“Come now, Francis,” Sir John said, that scolding tone reappearing, “there’s no need to be like that. Of course, there was some upset after the last quest’s unfortunate conclusion, but that didn’t mean we never wanted to see you again.”

Francis abruptly whirled back to face Sir John, leaning across James, a hand tight on the arm of James’ chair. James had to hurriedly press himself back into his seat again, cursing internally. 

“’Unfortunate conclusion’?” Francis repeated incredulously. “Men died, Sir John, in ways you could not even imagine.”

Sir John nodded in agreement, his brows raised. “Yes, it was a tragedy, of course, but not one that will be repeated.”

“And why is that?” Francis said in a low tone, as if he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. James could see his grip tightening on the arm of the chair until his knuckles went white. “Why do you think this time will be different?”

“Gentlemen, perhaps we should talk of other matters,” James cut in swiftly, his gaze jumping between the two of them. He had a bad feeling about where this was heading and did not want to see it happen tonight, in the middle of a feast and with himself caught in the middle.

Francis waved a hand sharply, cutting him off. He didn’t bother to look at James, his eyes still fixed on Sir John. “No, James, let him speak. Sir John, why do you think this quest will end any less—unfortunately—than last time?”

Sir John took a breath, a considering look on his face as he stared back at Francis. James continued to press himself into his chair back and hoped Sir John would find some words to defuse this situation, since Francis seemed unwilling to let it lie.

“Well, Francis,” Sir John started, “you know how much I cared for each of the knights who went on that journey. There were commendable men. But there was a certain lack of—station—among them, if you will. Take your Sir Blanky, for example. He’s a brave man, for certain, with a stout and true heart. But he’s hardly from noble stock, is he?”

Francis was utterly silent, glaring venomously at Sir John.

“Francis-” James started, hoping to sue for some kind of peace here, but Francis cut him off.

“And you think this bauble of yours cares whether you are of noble or peasant stock?” He grit out, and he sounded dangerous, seconds away from violence.

“It’s hardly a bauble-“ James tried to interject again, but Francis’ glare switched to him, just as angry, and silenced.

“This cup will kill you all.” He glared back at Sir John. “Mark me, Sir John. This thing doesn’t care where you come from, if you shit gold or dung. It wants you dead. And I promise, men all die the same, no matter where they come from.”

Sir John frowned deeply, clearly very displeased. And really, this had gone on long enough.

“Tad dramatic there, Francis,” James said, breaking the gathering tension with a forced laugh.

Francis’ eyes snapped back to his, and the anger broke for a split second, and he looked lost, as if James’ words had thrown him off course. It shook James, to see him so openly vulnerable. Then the anger snapped back into place and he stood abruptly and left the table without a word. James made to go after him, but stopped at Sir John’s hand on his arm.

“Let him be, James,” he said quietly, “he’s always been a bit overwrought. Must be that Irish blood in him, hm?”

James could do naught by nod and turned reluctantly back to his dinner, although all traces of hunger had long fled.

_

The feast dragged on interminably. James found his appetite never quite returned. Just as Francis did not. Eventually, a servant came and cleared his plate.

He and Sir John spent the feast speaking of unimportant topics; Francis seemed to have taken all desire to discuss the quest with him.

Finally, the king stood from his seat and the hall fell quiet, conversation stopping and the minstrel halting their tunes.

“My people,” Barrow said, and his voice carried through the now silent hall. “Our kingdom has weathered many trials. We have seen much strife, battled with other kingdoms, faced monsters of unknown origins. But I tell you, our most important battle lies before us now.”

Barrow gestured with both arms, indicating the men on either side of him. “These knights here,” he continued, “are our champions in this great peril. Through their bravery and honour, we will make it through and win such a prize that other men will tremble before our glory.”

The hall burst into cheers, the knights arrayed around the hall beating their mugs against the table in applause. Sir John reached over, and clasped James’ shoulder, smiling at him. For the first time since Francis left the table, James managed to smile back. His spirits lifted at the sound of celebration in the hall, at the sight of so many smiling faces, and he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like when they returned – the cheer, the honour of a deed well done. Another proof that he was more than he was born into.

James, still smiling, looked out over the hall, and caught himself in blue, unsmiling eyes. Francis was leaning against a wall near the back of the hall, looking straight at him, stone-faced. Their gaze held for a long moment before Francis broke it, turning to stare around the hall, lip curling in the slightest of sneers.

James was abruptly hotly angry at the man, this miserable man who couldn’t see the glory in this. Why had James even bothered dragging him here? Just to hurt them both?

Barrow had sat back down now; his speech had signalled the end of formalities tonight and so the drink was pouring at an ever increasing pace. The minstrel struck up their song again, breaking into a fast-paced jig. It didn’t take long before knights and ladies were standing and dragging their partners to the floor cleared for dancing at the other end of the hall.

“And that is my cue to leave,” Sir John said quietly, as he always did whenever dancing broke out. James felt a sudden wave of fondness for his consistency. “Enjoy the rest of your night, James. We’ll speak tomorrow about the supplies we’ll need to gather.”

“Yes, Sir John. Sleep well.”

Sir John shot him a conspiratory look. “Over this racket? That would truly be a miracle.” James laughed and wished him farewell, watching fondly as he made his slow way out of the hall. Unsurprisingly, Sir Irving followed not long after—as James recalled, he was as unfond of drink and the dancing it brought as Sir John was.

James eyed the dancers on the floor and felt a melancholic air press upon his spirit. He felt abruptly separate from all these people and their joy, the earlier argument, Francis’ chilling words and obvious contempt still weighing on his mind. His gaze drifted toward the ladies and knights still waiting at the various tables to be asked for a dance. He spotted Goodsir sitting at a table nearby, appearing to be in amiable conversation with his seatmate, and decided a spot of mischief was just what he needed to lift his spirits.

He pushed up from the table and alighted quickly next to Goodsir, greeting him and his seatmate with a smile.

“Good evening, Goodsir.” he turned to look at the man next to Goodsir. “Would you mind if I borrowed him for a moment?”

The man gestured his acquiescence and Goodsir himself stood. “Of course, Sir James, how can I help?”

James extended his elbow. “You can help by taking a turn on the dance floor with me.

Goodsir blanched, so quick a change from his earlier amiable expression that James almost laughed. “Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t possibly-”

James took his hand gently and tucked it into his elbow. “Of course you can, I know you can dance. It’ll be a laugh.”

“Yes, but not for me,” Goodsir muttered under his breath, and now James did laugh, feeling his cheer come back to him. Goodsir followed him incredibly reluctantly to the dancers, partnering James with a very put upon expression.

James was right—the dance was a laugh; he felt his spirits lift and saw some of the other dancers stifling their own laughter. Goodsir still looked a little uncomfortable, to be the centre of anyone’s focus, but he was starting to smile by the end of the dance.

“Now may I sit in peace?” Goodsir asked him, still fighting a smile.

James nodded, still laughing. “Yes, yes. You’re a wonderful dancer, Goodsir, thank you for indulging me.”

Goodsir shook his head chidingly and headed back to his own seat. James turned, with a mind to rejoin the dancing. As he did so, he spotted Francis, standing against the wall, out of the way and alone. His eyes were flicking around the room, jumping from person to person and looking more miserable with each one.

It bothered James, made him feel guilty. Seeing that misery made so much of this evening feel hollow, unsatisfying.

James turned back to the dancers and quickly asked a passing lady to partner him. She readily agreed and he swept back onto the dance floor for another turn. When they danced, he saw Francis again, now in a seemingly strained conversation with another man. As James watched, the other man left, returning to a nearby table. Other seated guests were glancing at Francis, faces set in frowns or curious expressions. Francis shifted under the attention, fingers tapping against his thigh nervously.

The dance turned James away from him and he tried to refocus on his partner and his steps. He managed to focus for the rest of the song and decided he had had enough dancing for the evening. He started to head back to the head table, and saw that another man was leaving Francis’ side, and Francis’ face was again painted in frustration and misery.

James’ gut clenched, and he realized abruptly that he was angry, that the anger had been simmering all evening, lurking below his other emotions. Why had Francis agreed to come here? The question itched at his mind, wouldn’t give him peace. Francis must have known that his welcome from Barrow would be less than polite, if even half of the rumors James had heard about the previous quest were true. And yet he’d come anyway and was making himself more miserable by the second.

James just couldn’t see a reason for it. The man obviously had no desire for his position in the court back, or he would be more ingratiating, more diplomatic, and refrain from provoking powerful knights like Sir John. He didn’t want glory or honour, or he would not deride the quest and the Grail. And he hadn’t come here for James. How could a man who told him nothing of his past, not even his mage nomer, possibly value James enough to go on this quest for friendship alone.

Had James not earned his trust? Had he not deserved to know the truth of Francis, even the smallest one?

And yet, hadn’t James concealed his own truths from Francis?

That niggling shame drove James to Francis’ side, even as his anger remained. It was a bad idea, he knew that even as he made the decision. But his earlier resolve to let things lie for tonight was nowhere to be found.

Francis saw him approaching, and his expression shifted into something less miserable and more wary.

“James,” he greeted, his voice withdrawn.

“Francis,” James said, and it was no good, he couldn’t control his tone. Any warm feelings that may have lingered in Francis’ face immediately disappeared. This was going to be a disaster, but James couldn’t stop from blundering on.

“You should take part in the festivities,” James continued, and his tone was still all kinds of confrontational, “who knows when we’ll be back here again.”

“I’ll never be back here, even if this quest goes well and you truly do win the Grail,” Francis said, his brow drawing together, “you couldn’t pay me to return to this nest of vipers.”

James laughed derisively. “Is that what we are to you?”

Francis’ expression softened with regret. “I-I didn’t mean you, James.”

“Then what did you mean?” James demanded.

Francis just looked at him, seemingly at a loss for words. James huffed, and nodded in the direction of the man who was just talking to Francis.

“Did you know him before?”

Francis looked at the floor. “A little. We weren’t close.”

James eyed him closely, waiting for Francis to meet his gaze. “Like you were with Lady Sophia?”

Francis glared back up at him. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“No, I don’t,” James agreed readily, angrily, “that would require you to tell me anything about your life.”

Francis’ expression turned pained. “That’s not fair, James. Have you told me everything about your life, even the things you’re ashamed of?”

It struck too close to home and angered James further, as if Francis were rubbing it in, how little they knew each other.

He jerked away from Francis. “Why are you here, Francis? You weren’t ordered to this, you volunteered, just as we all did. If you care nothing for the glory of the quest, or for the gains that stand to be made for the kingdom, why did you bother coming?”

“You asked me to,” Francis said, tone flat and angry.

“And if I had known you at all, I would not have made that mistake,” James replied harshly, and turned away. “I’m going to go dance some more. I might suggest having a bit of the wine—it will make the conversations go easier.”

Francis’ jaw tightened and he drew away from James. He didn’t say anything, looked at James for a long moment before turning away, heading toward the entrance of the hall. James watched go, confusion mingling with his anger.

It wasn’t James’ business he decided, and turned back to the dancers, determined to enjoy himself.

_

James woke early the next morning, an ache pressing against his temples as the sun beat into his room. He made his way through his ablutions early and hurried down to meet Sir John, already waiting outside the meeting room.

Sir John greeted him warmly, an indulgent cast to his face. “Good night?” he asked innocently.

“The court has always known how to entertain,” James said diplomatically, and couldn’t help but think of the look on Francis’ face when he’d left him. Sudden guilt soured his already roiling stomach.

“As it will celebrate when we return,” Sir John said, and guiding them inside to begin.

The rest of the day passed quickly, deciding what supplies they needed and passing that information on to the servants to have it gathered. James found himself thankful for Sir John’s guidance as the day went on; here was an experienced knight that knew what to expect from these types of quests and what would be needed for the knights and their squires.

“And you will have your own squire, of course,” Sir John said, eyes twinkling. He put up a palm to stop James’ protests in their tracks. “I will not hear any protests. I know you’ve been reluctant to take a squire, but how is a boy to learn if not from serving a knight? Evans is a strong lad; he’ll serve you well.”

James nodded and held his tongue.

The sun was already low on the horizon by the time James and Sir John had finalized everything. They spent the evening meal in discussion with the king, Irving, Little, and Gore, with Goodsir also joining them. Francis was notably absent—James wondered if it was because Barrow had not invited him or because Francis had refused. James found his next bite harder to swallow.

They were to set out early the next morning, at dawn’s first light. James looked around at the table, seeing his fellow knights in conversation, comfortable and fed. The next weeks would be hard, he knew, and it would test them all. But it would be worth it, and soon enough they would be back here, in fellowship together enjoying good food and safe shelter.

And Francis would still not be here, James finally let himself think. Any nascent and buried thoughts he had had about Francis leaving his cottage and serving in the court were a foolish fantasy, he could admit that now. These next few weeks would be their last together; James could not see a future in which Francis would welcome James’ presence at his little cottage again, even if James got it into his head to go there.

The knowledge was oddly piercing. James let it sink into his mind until it became a duller ache.

_

James rose before the sun the next day, his mind too full of thoughts of the quest to remain quiet and allow him to sleep longer. He dressed himself, took a deep breath, and left his chambers with a quick stride, ready to meet this quest head-on.

Sir John was also already awake, lingering outside the main castle door. James nodded to him in greeting where he was standing with Lady Jane and Lady Sophia, and set about gathering the horses and gear.

The other knights joined them shortly, accompanied with their squires. James made sure to greet them all personally; after all, these men would be knights one day and James would create a friendship now if he could. They seemed good men and well suited to their knights - Collins was accompanying Sir John, as he had for many years. Irving had Gibson, a man James didn’t know well although they had met before, while Little had reliable Peglar and Gore young Hartnell.

The only face that was truly new to him was the squire Sir John had selected to accompany James. He was a very young man with a slender build and a nervous look on his face. James sympathized—he could not have imagined participating in something so grand when he was the boy’s age, no matter how desperately he yearned for it.

“You must be Evans,” James said and the boy nodded nervously, before dipping into a low bow.

“Pleasure to meet you, Sir James,” he said nervously.

“And I, you. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. For now, can you help the stable hands bring out the horses?” Evans nodded, seeming glad to have a task, and scurried off.

James got caught up in the growing fervor, overseeing the supplies being distributed. The other knights were feeling it was well; James spotting Little and Gore grinning at each other in excitement and Sir John clapping Irving on the shoulder. The sun rose as they scurried about, the sky clear and the day promised to be warm. It was a good day to start a quest.

James turned from helping Evans secure gear to Evans’ horse and finally spotted Francis. He had the same bag he’d brought from his cottage slung over his shoulder, his staff tucked under his arm. He was looking around him at the hurrying people and the gathering crowds watching the bustle with a wrinkled brow. As if sensing James looking at him, Francis’ gaze met his for a long moment, before drifting past him to Evans. His mouth twisted and he looked away completely.

James turned back to Evans, who seemed to have their task well in hand. “I’ll be right back. Bring out Crozier’s horse next.” Evans nodded, his eyes jumping from his task to peek at Francis before quickly looking away.

James turned toward Francis, sighing quietly and heading toward him. It got easier the closer James got—there seemed to be a small oasis around Francis where no one entered, everyone giving him a wide berth.

“Francis,” James said quietly when he was near. Francis quickly glanced at him and looked away.

“James.”

They said nothing to each other for a long, stifling moment. James let himself look at him and had the peculiar feeling of having no words at the ready. He could spin any one of his usual stories or anecdotes, even a comment about the weather and how it would be good for riding. But all of those would be unwelcome with this man, and James found he did not want to see the expression Francis would make when hearing them.

“My squire is bringing your horse,” he said instead, simply and plainly. But even this managed to make Francis frown.

“My horse?” he asked.

“Your mule wouldn’t be able to keep up with our horses,” James explained. Sir John had made the decision yesterday, and James had agreed, even knowing Francis would probably be displeased. “She’ll be well taken care of until you return.”

Francis studied him, then nodded. “Fine.” And he walked away towards where Evans was leading a horse toward them. James watched him leave, his back straight as ever even under the glances thrown his way, his strides sure.

He missed how they were before, he realized. Missed having Francis’ smiles, few as they were, his wry remarks and asides. He knew more of Francis now, had glimpses into the past he’d been so curious about, and yet James had less of him than before.

Maybe these two lives of his, his life at court and his life with Francis, had never been meant to meet. Maybe things would have been better if he hadn’t asked Francis to come. Francis, at least, would have been happy at this moment, unaware of what James was doing. And James could have seen him again after, blissfully unaware of who Francis truly was and satisfied with the scraps of him he possessed.

He swallowed, and firmly put thoughts of Francis from his mind. Now was not the time.

They left while the morning was still young, with the appropriate fanfare. The king saw them off himself, standing above the gathered crowd in the courtyard. They rode out from the castle gates, Sir John in the lead and followed closely by Collins. James followed, aware of Evans just off his shoulder and Francis behind.

They traveled west, following the hardened road for now. They would follow it for the rest of the day, breaking off from it in twenty miles to head northwest. After that, they would ride through the forest for a time. There was a certain amount of guesswork in their travel—they had the direction sensed by King Barrow during his vision, and the route taken by the previous quest, but no solid leads in terms of their destination. But the Grail left signs behind it, odd events and strange happenings that gave clue to its hiding place. For right now, they would focus on retracing the steps of the previous quest and try to pick up the Grail’s trail from there.

Their first day passed quietly enough, with some of the men starting a travelling song as the afternoon wore on. Sir John halted them to camp in the early evening, well before sunset. Every man had a duty, whether it was to put up the tents, hunt for supper, or see to the horses. Evans ended up taking care of the last one and James noticed Francis quietly join him. They seemed to get along well, if the way the ever-present nervousness eased on Evans’ face as any hint.

At least there was someone here who seemed comfortable with Francis. James and he had yet to talk since their aborted conversation this morning and judging by how Francis was avoiding his gaze, that wasn’t likely to change any time soon. Francis descended into a frigid silence anytime Sir John was near him, responding to any questions with wordless looks and gestures. James could see it aggravated Sir John and he sympathized. Sir John was usually well-liked, although James had overheard some not-so-kind remarks concerning him before from others at court. Having Francis so clearly upset with him would hurt the man, but James was unsure what to do about it. 

It sullied Francis’ relations with the other men, who were perceptive enough to pick up Sir John’s mood and follow it accordingly. Those who had already been uncertain of Francis steered clear of him and he ended up sitting alone at suppertime, and lingering by himself at the fire after.

They set a sentry roster, from which Francis was notably absent. James wondered if Barrow had had a conversation with Sir John about Francis’ trustworthiness; seeing the way Sir John avoided looking at Francis when setting the roster, he knew he must have. And knew that Francis must be just as aware of that fact.

James headed into his tent early, eager to get some sleep before his sentry watch later on. He paused in the entry of his tent, glancing back at Francis, still silhouetted against the fire. The flames and the surrounding darkness made him seem very alone.

_

The next days passed similarly, more like a pleasant trek through the woods rather than a quest for glory and honour. The weather remained fair, the sun shining clear and the skies free of clouds. They persisted in setting a watch at their campsite, though the nights remained peaceful other than the occasional cry of an animal in the darkness. James found himself falling into a friendly rhythm with the other knights, staying up late with them telling them tales of his past adventures. It was a novelty to travel with other knights—so often he travelled alone with naught but Clio for company. But these were good men, steadfast and true, and affable enough to agree to the telling of his stories, though they must have heard them before.

The only odd thing, James realized after a few days of travel, was that they had yet to come across another person besides their party; there were no travellers on the road, despite the fair weather in the height of summer, and they hadn’t passed any signs of agriculture or nearby villages. But as they went on, the reason for the lack of people became clear—this area had been struck with a blight and had clearly not recovered. As they travelled on, the trees became more gnarled and grey and all hints of green disappeared. The very land seemed sick and James was oddly certain that nothing could grow here.

They eventually cleared the blighted area, and the greenery returned until they were travelling again under full branches of leaves. James was sure he wasn’t the only one to breathe a sigh of relief.

That night, Francis spoke to Sir John briefly, the first time he’d broken his self-imposed silence with him.

“We’re further now,” he said, looking off into the trees, “we’ve come further than we did seven years past.”

Sir John looked at Francis before nodding gravely. “Thank you, Francis.”

Francis nodded briefly and turned to enter his tent. He didn’t come out for the rest of the night, not even when supper was announced. After the others had eaten and were settling in for a post-supper conversation, James asked Hartnell to dish a portion up for Francis. He excused himself from the fire, bowl in hand, and approached Francis’ tent.

He lingered outside the tent then cleared his throat, feeling suddenly awkward. “Francis. I’ve brought you something to eat.”

There was no movement for a long moment, and James wondered if Francis had simply gone to sleep early. Then the tent flap opened, Francis holding it back to look at James.

“Here,” James said shortly, thrusting out the bowl. Francis hesitated before taking it with a murmur of thanks.

James looked at him while Francis looked at his stew. It was frustrating, not knowing what to say to him. Conversation used to feel so easily between them but now he was like a stranger to James. And in a way, he truly was; the things James knew now only made it more apparent where the holes of Francis’ missing history lay. It made it hard to talk as they would have so many months ago.

And yet, James missed it. He missed it more each day, until the hurt of missing it overshadowed the anger. What did it matter if he knew who Francis was if he could not even speak with him?

“Will you not come sit with us?” James asked finally, unable to bear the silence a moment longer but also unable to make himself walk away.

Francis shook his head. “I’m content here.”

“Francis, the men will not grow fonder of you with distance,” James said, a bit sharper than he originally intended. “Some effort is necessary to make them like you.”

Francis’ lips curved in a very bitter smile. “I’m not here to be liked.”

“Yes, god forbid anyone do that,” James huffed, and for a moment it almost felt like before, teasing Francis for his persistent impression of a curmudgeonly old man. But he could see immediately from the set of Francis’ jaw the comment had not come across as a joke.

“I’ve never heard you tell your ghoul story quite like that before,” Francis said abruptly. “There was a lot more slipping in the mud when you told it to me.”

It was such a simple comment, but it made James feel exposed, hunted. Francis may as well have called him a liar to his face.

But Francis said nothing else, turning back into his tent and letting the flap fall closed behind him. James, after a long moment, turned back to the fire and retook his seat, letting the roll of conversation put Francis from his mind. 

It worked until James turned to his own tent; then, the silence brought Francis’ words back. And with them, went the last of his anger.

For all that James had stewed in his anger, furious at the revelation of all Francis had hid from him, was James not also doing the same? In a way, was what James did not worse? Francis only hid the truth through omission—he did not twist the truth to better serve him, did not prevaricate and employ fanciful phrases to forge himself a gilded suit of armour to portray a preferred version of himself to the world.

Shame replaced anger and James laid awake staring at the roof of his tent for a long time.

_

The next day was filled with the same monotony of travelling, with one notable exception—there were people now. The occasional traveler passed them on the road, exchanging friendly greetings, and James noticed a separate track that clearly led to a village. It was the first signs of life they’d seen since beginning to travel through this land, and it was strangely relieving to see the faces of strangers again.

James remembered what Francis had said the night before, about being further than the previous quest had traveled, right after they had passed out of the blighted area and wondered if there was a connection there.

As the sun set, the trees started to close in and Sir John called for them to halt. They were all used to the routines of putting up camp after so many days travelling; they were seated cozily before the fire as darkness set in, enjoying some hares caught by Gore. The mood of the men was much improved—the dismal lack of people and greenery had weighed on them all and every man seemed to feel a renewed vigour matching the bustle of life around them. Even the night-time woods seemed more lively than usual; James could hear creatures rustling about, the leaves whispering against each other in the wind.

The only one who did not seem to feel this renewal, as seemed inevitable, was Francis. He sat at a distance from the men, as was his wont, and his face seemed furrowed with worry to James’ eyes. It had been many days since James had seen a different expression on Francis’ face. The days when he’d managed to coax a laugh from him seemed so far behind them so as to not have happened at all.

James stayed by the fire, turning to face outward so as not to have the fire blind his night vision while the others began to crawl into their tents. James missed when Francis went to his own tent, and felt obscurely disappointed; he was so often at the fire later than the rest of the men, James had thought that taking the first watch might have given the two of them a chance to talk, though about what he wasn’t sure.

James turned his thoughts away from Francis, and focused his attention on the woods around them. The wind picked up slightly, making the leaves of the trees shift oddly in the firelight. One of the tent flaps opened and Sir John exited, glancing around their little campsite before stepping quietly up to James.

“Having trouble sleeping?” James whispered, not wanting to wake any of the men.

“In a way,” Sir John said, then looked at James closely, before taking a seat next to him on the fallen log he’d chosen. “I believe there is some information I’d best share with you, before we go further. I’ve been wrestling with myself whether I should do so, but…” he paused, discomfort crossing his face. “If something should happen to me-”

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Sir John-”

Sir John smiled at him, an indulgent cast to his face. “If the world was as we wished it, the Grail would be in our hands already. I mention it only as a way to explain my reasoning, not my own worries.”

James sighed and nodded. “Please, continue.”

Sir John didn’t speak for a long moment. “Seven years ago,” he began, and James felt his eyes widen, “the king saw the Grail for the first time. He assembled a group of knights, to be led by his best, Sir Ross.” Sir John looked at him directly. “You know this. All the court does. But what happened afterward is rarely talked about.”

“What did happen?” The words slipped out without James’ permission. They were more nakedly honest than he wanted them to be, his desire to know more open than he’d have it be.

Sir John paused again, using great care to gather his words. “The quest had its troubles, this is true. Lives were lost, as you know. But they did not turn back because of fear for their lives or out of grief. They turned back because Francis made them.”

James blinked. “What do you mean?”

Sir John cleared his throat, his face a little awkward. “Francis was...shaken after a trial the quest faced. He commanded Sir Ross to turn back and used his magic to reinforce that command.”

James stared at him, trying to process the words. “Are you saying Francis used magic to control Sir Ross’ mind? Forgive me, Sir John, but I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Sir Ross did deny it, of course,” Sir John said. “They had been friends for many years, and none truly expected a man as loyal as Ross to have anything but praise for Francis, even then. But Ross was a shadow of himself when he returned and it wasn’t long before he left the court, never to return.”

“And you believe Francis had something to do with that,” James said slowly.

“And I am not the only one to think so,” Sir John said, shooting James a significant look. The meaning was clear—the king, at the very least, was privy to the same suspicions.

“No one quite knows the extent of Francis’ powers, something I’m sure he’s kept deliberately obscured,” Sir John continued. “He was brought to the court as a young man by Sir Parry, many years back. His origins have always been a mystery, though of course his homeland is undeniable. But one thing about that man which has always been clear is his desire for things above his station. Not even the position of court mage was enough for him.”

“I’m not sure I follow. If Francis wanted to succeed so badly, why would he have sabotaged the quest?” James asked, Sir John’s words whirling in his mind.

“The Grail is everything good in this world. Honour, and order, and light. A world in which the King possessed the Grail would never allow for a man with Francis’ background and qualities to advance in the way he desired,” Sir John said, something significant layered in his tone.

James thought back to that night before the feast, watching Lady Sophia enter Francis’ chambers, and thought he might understand what Sir John might be referring to.

“Whatever his motives,” Sir John continued, “the king sussed out the truth. Francis fled the court in disgrace.”

James sat silent for a long moment, absorbing what Sir John had said. He couldn’t make the story fit into the picture of Francis he had formed. Francis had been clearly and vehemently against the quest from the start; the very thought of the Grail upset him. But James had always thought that was because of the danger the quest presented and an overabundance of caution, not some other ulterior motive to sabotage the king.

“I still don’t understand, Sir John,” James finally said. “Why would Francis agree to come on this quest, if he does not want the Grail found?”

“To prevent us finding it,” Sir John said simply. “To ensure that we spend days and hours wandering in the dark. He does not want the Grail found and I fear the ends he will go to in order to keep it hidden.”

“Then if you believe him capable of such treachery, why allow him to come?” James asked.

Sir John sighed. “He would have found some way to come anyway if we had denied him. He already found a way back to the court, did he not?” Sir John leaned forward, lowering his voice. “This is why I wanted to talk to you. I know you feel friendship for the man, as I once did. But Francis cannot be trusted, not with the fate of this quest. I need you to remember that, and to be wary of him.”

James said nothing, meeting Sir John’s gaze for a long moment before he had to look away. Images seemed to dance before his mind’s eye: Francis wrapping his injury, Francis making him eat that horrible porridge day after day, Francis refusing his money. Francis’ wary face whenever James spoke to him now.

“He has treated me with nothing but kindness, Sir John,” he eventually said. “I do not believe he would betray us.”

Sir John nodded, expression sympathetic. “Neither did I, once upon a time. That was before he persisted in his pursuit of my ward, even knowing my wife and I would not stand for it and the dishonour it would do us. Before he ensured the failure of what was meant to be our king’s shining glory.” Sir John put a hand on James’ shoulder, shaking him lightly to emphasize his point. “We cannot allow history to repeat itself. Ask yourself, how well do you truly know Francis?”

James became aware of a presence behind him and turned quickly, cursing himself internally for being so distracted during his watch. But it was only Francis, standing just by the fire, clearly having just left his tent. He was stock-still, his face frozen and unreadable. There was no way he hadn’t overheard them.

Before James could think of a thing to say, he turned around and went into his tent.

He and Sir John sat in silence for a moment before Sir John clapped his shoulder again and let go. “Think on what I’ve said. I know I can rely on you, James.” James nodded in acknowledgement and watched Sir John enter his own tent.

James remained seated on his log, turning his eyes back to the darkness outside their camp. The hours of his watch passed slowly but peacefully, aside from the riotous churning of his own mind. Finally, he woke Irving to replace him and went to his own tent. James got into his bedroll and finally managed to snatch some sleep right before dawn._

James woke with the rest of the men, as tired as when he’d gone to sleep. The day felt interminably long and his exhaustion very quite left him, leaving him drooping in the saddle after only a few hours of riding. But James was experienced at disguising those kinds of things and he was confident the men were none the wiser that all he wanted was to go back to sleep.

James had plenty of time to think while they were riding, which didn’t help his exhaustion. Sir John’s words continued to circle in his mind but James could not make them make sense. The idea of Francis deliberately trying to sabotage this quest and the more insidious idea that Francis had acted in some way that resulted in the deaths of men on the previous quest was too unbelievable for James to accept. A man who acted like that would not refuse payment, would not subsequently give that payment away. James admittedly did not know everything about Francis but he thought he could read him well enough to not mistake the fulfilment Francis gained from his work.

But neither could he entirely discount Sir John’s words nor, by extension, the king’s. Sir John was a good man, a respected man, who’d been nothing but good to James. James trusted him; he would willfully lead James astray.

And to think James had thought someone finally breaking the silence that surrounded the previous quest would give him some answers, some clarity. He only felt more lost.

It didn’t help that Francis refused to meet his eye once that day. He always seemed to find the furthest place to be from James at any given moment and when they happened to be near each other, he always managed to turn to face into the trees. James, still uncertain what he wanted to say, eventually stopped trying to catch his eye.

Evening approached and they fell into their routine of setting up camp. Francis, again, sat far away from the men, only acknowledging them when Hartnell brought him his dinner. James watched him poke at his food and finally place it to the side.

Twilight came to a close and the watches were selected. James knew that he should turn in early, try to make up for his missed rest from the night before, but the thought of retreating to his tent was suddenly suffocating. Instead, he made his way to Sir John.

“I’d like to take the opportunity to explore the terrain ahead,” he said, quietly.

Sir John looked at him appraisingly. “A sound idea, James, but not one to practice in the dark.”

“Not so dark,” James said, gesturing to the full moon beginning its trek across the sky.

It was a foolish response, hardly an argument at all. But Sir John must have seen something in James’ face that made him give in, for he inclined his head in agreement.

“Just make sure to be back shortly. I will send someone after you if you’ve been gone for too long.”

“Yes, Sir John,” James said in relief. He went back to his seat and gathered his sword, strapping it back around his waist. He glanced up briefly, and was shocked to see Francis looking at him, expression curious. The curiosity faded when he saw James returning his gaze, replaced by wariness.

James broke his gaze and strode into the woods.

It only took him moments to determine there really wasn't much to see. The growing shadows cast interesting shadows under the trees, but all that lay under them was the usual moss and ferns. All the same, James picked his footing carefully and kept himself alert. It was a pointless activity, yes, but it gave him something to do and required a level of concentration that kept his mind from his other thoughts.

“Would you help me, good sir?” a voice said behind to him, and James turned to see a young woman standing in a shaft of moonlight next to a tree. She was a peasant woman, a maiden. Even in the darkness, James could clearly see the worried look on her face.

“Are you lost, dear lady?” James said, approaching her cautiously, “you should not be about alone so late at night.”

Her eyes pinched a little, the frown on her face deepening. “I’m not lost, sir. I’m looking for our milk cow—she managed to escape her pen and if I don’t find her by morning, my father will be very cross with me. Would you help me find her?” 

James was tired, his body was sore from riding, and his mind was overful and spinning. He ached with the need to be alone.

“Of course, my lady," he said. "How can I help?”

The girl smiled at him and gestured over her shoulder. “I think she went this way.” James nodded and followed her, seeing the traces of hoof marks on the ground in the moonlight.

“What’s your name?” James asked.

“Morgan,” the girl said. “And yours?”

“I’m James.”

“Are you a knight, James?” Morgan asked, looking up at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a knight pass through my village.”

“I am. My companions and I are on a quest for the king.”

“That must be nice, to do something grand.” Morgan smiled at him again, wryly. “Not much like that happens in my village.”

“Are you not on a quest right now?” James asked, gesturing to the trail they were following. “It may affect fewer people, but that doesn’t make it any less grand.”

“It’s just a cow,” Morgan said, skeptical, “not a knightly errand.”

“And yet, your livelihood depends on it,” James said, “and the cow surely doesn’t want to wander the forest forever.” Morgan laughed softly.

They walked in silence for a time, James pointing out where the trail moved from one side to the other as the cow evidently paused to eat fauna from the undergrowth. After a time, he noticed Morgan shivering, and paused to pass her his heavy cloak. Morgan thanked him softly.

Eventually, they came upon the wayward cow in a clearing, clearly illuminated by moonlight. Morgan quickly harnessed it, putting the halter round its head and murmuring softly to the creature the whole time. It was an oddly comforting sight, a maiden comforting a cow in the light of the moon, and it soothed the underlying anxiety that had been chasing James all night.

“Thank you, Sir James,” Morgan turned to him, holding the cow’s rope. The cow seemed unaffected by its late night adventure, resuming its calm chewing.

“You’re welcome, Morgan,” James said. “May I walk you back to your home?”

But Morgan shook her head. “I can make it back alone, but I thank you.” James nodded, knowing it would be uncouth for a strange man, knight or not, to insist on it.

Morgan started to shrug out of his cloak, but James stopped her. “Please, keep it.”

“Will you not need it, for your quest?”

“I can get another.” And James did not think this girl had anything of the like, or she would not have been in the woods in the first place with no cloak. It cost James nothing to give it to her.

“Then I thank you again, sir. You truly are a credit to your lord.”

James bowed to her. “Farewell, Morgan.”

Morgan curtsied, and led the cow off into the woods. James stood and watched her go until she disappeared into the trees.

It was a good feeling, doing something so unmitigatingly good with no expectations. This was not a story that would be dressed up to be heard by other knights in rich halls, nothing that would bring glory to the kingdom. The only people who would care were Morgan, her family, and the cow. And yet it would mean the world to them, a quest just as important as any declared by the king.

It was to these thoughts that James came back to camp. Most of the men had turned in for the night, other than the posted sentry and Francis, always up late. The sentry for the first shift was Evans, who was sitting next to Francis and barely glancing out at the perimeters. Francis, unwatched, had a fond look on his face, as he watched Evans scrawl something in the dirt with a stick. Evans asked him a question, and Francis nodded and took the stick from his hand to scrawl something of his own. Evans watched closely, and took the stick back from Francis and carefully started poking at the dirt under Francis’ watchful eyes.

He was teaching the boy to write, James realized suddenly, and probably had been all along, using Evan’s sentry posts to educate the lad. It was a sweetness, something James had not expected.

These were the things that brought Francis joy, he realized abruptly, watching the soft smile on Francis’ face as Evans painstakingly drew his words. Not the things that brought acclaim, or glory, but coming to the aid of people in the ways most needed, whether that meant healing the sick or educating a boy. Francis would win no rewards by doing so, but there was a certain honour in it that James could not deny.

Francis looked up from Evans writing and saw James looking at him from across the fire; the fond smiled drained away to be replaced by a wary look and James was abruptly sick of it, tired of making his friend look at him that way and the guilt that always came with it. He approached the two of them. Francis opened his mouth to speak, but James beat him to it.

“You’re doing well, Evans,” James said warmly, and smiled slightly at the sight of Evans blushing under the praise. “You have good penmanship, even without quill and vellum.”

“Thank you, sir,” Evans said, shyly looking at the ground and his writings. “I have a good teacher.”

“That you do,” James said, letting his eyes meet Francis’ for a long moment. “Evans, why don’t you turn in early tonight. I’ll take the rest of your shift and wake Hartnell.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Evans asked, looking hopeful at the thought of a bit more sleep. James laughed and clasped his shoulder.

“Of course. Sleep well, Evans.”

“Yes sir,” Evans said, scrambling to his feet and quietly making his way over to the squires' tent. James took his place next to Francis and the two of them sat in silence for a long moment. James realized this was the first time they’d been truly alone together in weeks.

“There was no need to mock the lad,” Francis said quietly, “He’s only just started learning. And he wasn’t slacking in his duties, I’d know if anyone approached the camp.”

James sighed. “I wasn’t mocking anyone, neither you nor the boy. And I know you wouldn’t endanger the camp by letting him be distracted.”

James could tell Francis was looking at him, but found it strangely hard to look back, letting his eyes remain on Evans' half-scrawled words.

“And where does this sudden confidence come from?” Francis asked, tone flat.

James made himself look back up at Francis, meeting his gaze. Just because he was unaccustomed to apologizing, found it difficult, did not mean he would back away when it needed to be done.

“I am sorry for what you heard last night. And for my boorish behaviour at the feast. You deserve better than that from me."

Francis looked at him for a long moment, his blue eyes turned black by the glare of the fire. “And Sir John’s words? Do you believe what he said?”

James kept looking at him. “I cannot pretend they had no affect on me. I know Sir John, I trust him But I also know and trust you. Whatever happened back then, I know you had your reasons.”

Francis smiled mockingly, something pained in his eyes. “Then you’ve learned nothing,” he said harshly, “Sir John is more right than you know. You should listen to him and stay far from me.”

James huffed in disbelief. This was not how he’d wanted this to go. “Do you not want me to trust you? To repair our bond?”

Francis stood, looking down at James. “I know my purpose here. Remember yours.” And he walked to his own tent, disappearing within.

Silence closed in, the sounds of the woodland creatures and insects in the trees around them seeming to increase in the void left by the conversation. James concentrated on looking out into the woods and tried not to feel wounded.

He didn’t sleep well that night either.

_

They were on the road early, as they were every morning. James felt sluggish from the effects of two nights in a row with little sleep. It felt like his eyes were always drawn to Francis, and his words from the night before blended with Sir John’s until all his mind seemed to echo with confusing warnings.

He’d wanted to fix things with Francis last night. And now it felt like things were worse.

Gore called out from the vanguard, and James realized the road they were on passed very close to a small village, just off to the right. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t even noticed.

It was unacceptable, the state of affairs he and Francis were in now. It was distracting him, something he could not afford. They would talk tonight, whether Francis desired it or not, and figure things out between them. Whatever the outcome, and whatever Sir John’s feelings about it, at least the whole affair would stop haunting James then.

Sir John pulled his horse to a halt and beckoned James to his side. “Take Sir Little and go to the village,” he said, “if they are able to part with any supplies, pay them handsomely for them.”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“And ask them if they’ve noticed anything peculiarly in the last few weeks. Remember, the Grail leaves a trail to guide us to it. It wants to be found.”

James nodded and gestured Little to follow him. Together, they rode to the village, where they were hailed by a passing villager, laden down with a bucket of water.

“Hello there, good sirs! What brings you to our humble homes?” he asked, putting his bucket down to shade his eyes against the sun.

“Good morning,” James said, and dismounted. “We come in search of victuals, if you have any to part with. We’ll pay you well.”

“Well, I’m sure we could part with a little, for the coin.”

“We’d greatly appreciate it. And we’d ask you to part with a little information as well, if you have it.”

“And I’ll part with it gladly, if I possess it,” the villager said. “Ask your questions.”

“We’re searching for something that has a particular effect on the world,” James said slowly, unsure how best to frame his question. “Have you noticed anything strange in these parts? Anything unnatural?”

The villager looked at him a long moment, his expression hidden by the hand shading his eyes. “I think I know just the thing. Follow me,” he finally said. He picked up his bucket and started further into the village. James shared a glance with Little, and they led their horses after him.

“Aenforth!” the man called when they pulled up in front of a little house. Another man emerged, slightly better dressed: presumably Aenforth.

“What is it?”

“These knights are passing through looking for unnatural occurrences. Tell them what your children saw,” the first villager said, his voice drawing in other villagers who were passing by.

Aenforth looked at them, his expression uncertain.

“We’ve been hearing strange tales out of those woods,” he said, “my children just passed through them on their way back from market and heard the foulest noises. My son swore he saw something lurching around in there. Not an animal—it looked like a man, but didn’t move like one.”

The other villagers were nodding. “Word is,” one piped up, “that the old cemetery used to be out that way. We haven’t buried people there in generations, but there’s always been tales of odd noises and foul smells there. We’ve learned not to go there after dark.”

“So what’s changed now?” Sir Little asked.

“Now it’s not just after dark,” another villager said. “Any time of day, we hear this groaning. It’s the dead, I tell you, come back from beyond. We fear they’ll come for us in our homes.” The assembled villagers all nodded, murmuring in assent. They were clearly frightened.

James exchanged a look with Little, and nodded. “We’ll look into it. You don’t have to fear.”

The first villager they’d met clasped James’ hand. “Thank you, good sir. We don’t have coin to pay you, but we’ll gladly give you the food you need. As much as we can spare.”

“No thanks is needed,” James said, “and we’ll pay for the food.”

The villagers were reluctant to agree to such a trade at first, but it was clear they could not afford to give what little they had away for free. James wore them down, and the villagers finally acquiesced and fetched the food. James and Little took the supplies and headed back to their group, followed by the grateful farewells of the villagers.

“Does that sound like the usual behaviour of the restless dead?” Little asked quietly as they walked back.

“No,” James said, “I’ve only heard of them being active at night. And usually there’s a reason for their being restless—it doesn’t just happen.” He glanced over at Little and knew they were thinking the same thing—such unusual events and effects of magic were expected to be found on the trail of the Grail. Something like this might mean they were heading in the right direction.

Sir John, after hearing their report, agreed. “We should investigate these rumours. There may be a clue as to our destination.”

Little took the lead to direct them toward the woods indicated by the villagers. James took up the rear guard, exchanging glances with Francis as he passed. Francis’ face was drawn, jaw clenched and eyes searching the trees around them. He was certainly expecting something, which made James all the more certain they had located the Grail’s trail at last.

The woods opened up into a cleaning, one that had been widened by the hands of men, judging by the stumps edging it. It was clearly the cemetery—James could see the grave stones laid in the ground, some so old the etched words were beginning to rub off completely.

The ground was disturbed, fresh turned earth sitting in small piles next to holes and dips in the dirt. The villagers were more right than they knew—James had his doubts that any of the dead still slept in this little graveyard.

“We should leave,” Francis said quietly, standing next to James, “Sluagh are not to be trifled with.”

“Don’t worry, Francis,” James replied, watching the other knights begin to fan out in the clearing, swords drawn. “We’ve dealt with the restless dead before. I admit, it seems there are many here, but it’s not something we’re unprepared for.”

Francis looked up at him, a hard look in his eye. “There is a heavy magic here. These are not the usual dead you’re used to.” He walked away from James, to Evans' side, who was walking the perimeter of the clearing beside Hartnell.

James watched him go and sighed before drawing his own sword and beginning to inspect the graves.

The mounds of dirt and their echoing depressions made it clear the grave he was staring at was empty, but there were few tracks to indicate where the thing had gone after it rose. There was no indication it had gone toward the village, for which James was thankful. But it would be difficult to put the things to rest without finding them, and James was loath to leave the area before making sure the village would be safe.

He walked forward to join Little next to the grave he was looking into. “Any luck?”

Little shook his head, using his sword to prod at the mound of dirt, making some sprinkle back into the hole. “No, no tracks to speak of. It’s like they rose and simply disappeared.”

“Damned odd,” James said, “it’s not as if these are intelligent creatures; they usually leave a trail any fool could follow in the dark.”

Little nodded, his eyes scanning the clearing. James heard a noise, like the flapping of wings, and looked up to see a strange bird perched in a tree nearby. It looked a bit like a raven, but larger than any raven James had ever seen, and with a peculiar iridescence to its feathers that seemed to catch the light in a way that distorted the bird’s outline. As James watched, it shifted on the branch, and it’s outline seemed to shift with its movements, the bird’s lines and colours changing.

James blinked hard, squinting up at the bird and wondering what he was looking at. The bird had shifted again, and now seemed to be staring straight back at him. There was always a certain intelligence in the eyes of ravens, but James had never found that disquieting before now.

He shook his head and looked away from the thing; now was not the time to be distracted by a bird, of all things. He turned back to face Little, his eyes passing over where Irving and Gibson were inspecting something on the ground-

There was something in the tree behind them. Something that was most certainly not a bird.

It was a man, James realized, in threadbare clothing, skin streaked with dirt. There was some kind of shawl wrapped around his shoulders and head, a light linen. Like a grave shroud.

“They’re in the trees!” James shouted, pointing at the one he’d spotted. His eyes darted to either side and saw more of them, more than he’d imagined with the headstones he’d seen in the graveyard. “Above you, men! They’re in the trees!”

The men responded immediately, shifting to look upward, putting their backs to the clearing. But the dead had responded just as quickly, dropping to the ground with unearthly shrieks and unimaginable swiftness. James swung his sword and struck the one charging him, cutting upward into it’s armpit. He quickly switched his blade’s angle to take the head off the next.

Shouts and cries went up around the clearing as the men met the dead in battle. James spun again and pierced another and saw Francis standing in the centre of the clearing, his staff and hand aloft, voice raised and shouting words in a foreign tongue. His cloak was starting to lift off the ground in a wind that James couldn’t feel from a few yards away.

James slew another of the dead, and ended up back to back with Little. He spotted another dead one coming towards them, this one a young woman deceased before her prime, when he heard a deep croak above him. He glanced up—there was the massive raven, perched directly above him and staring down. As he watched, it opened its beak and another croak came out, sounding as deep as to come from the belly of a whale.

He thought he heard Francis cry out, but he couldn’t be sure because the world was spinning around him, his grasp going lax on his sword, the feel of Little at his back disappearing as his knees went loose and-

_The wet mush of the snowball hit James full in the face. He wiped it away to see William pelting across the field away from him, giggling all the while. James gave chase, his legs pumping madly, and their laughter filled the clearing._

_He finally managed to catch his brother, dunking a pile of snow on his head. William twisted in his grasp with a shout and they overbalanced and tumbled to the ground, wrestling and stuffing wet snow in any opening they could find._

_Eventually, they sprawled out next to each other, panting. James stared up at the sky, the clouds scudding above promising more snow that night._

_“Father received a message from the court last night,” William said suddenly._

_James whirled to stare at him, propping himself up on his elbows. “And?”_

_William glanced at him before looking back to the sky. “He said he’d found a knight to foster you. He didn’t say when, though.”_

_But it would be soon, James knew. Soon James would leave Lord Robert’s lands and travel to the court and his training to be a knight would begin._

_William propped himself up on his elbows to mirror James, lifting his feet to wave them in the air behind him. “Promise you’ll remember me. When you’re a famous knight, travelling the kingdom. Promise you’ll remember.”_

_James nodded. “Of course I will. And this isn’t forever. I’ll be back one day.”_

_William looked at him a long moment. “I’d come with you. If I could.”_

_“I know.” But William was Lord Robert’s heir and a sickly child—he would be educated and taught how to handle the estate and its peasantry. James had no place in that world. He needed to create his own place._

_Suddenly, there was a hand on James’ shoulder. He flinched away and glanced behind him; there was a man crouched there, thinning hair blowing into his blue eyes, a strange staff in one hand. James looked wildly at William, but he didn’t seem to notice the stranger._

_The man glanced curiously at William before turning his eyes back to James. “It’s time to come back, James.” And before James could question what he meant, he reached out and put his palm on James’ forehead, strange words falling off his tongue and the world started to spin-_

James opened his eyes to Francis’ creased face, framed by blue sky and tree tops. As James focused on his face, Francis’ eyes opened.

“You’re alright,” Francis said quietly. His hand slipped from James’ face and came to rest on his shoulder. “You’re alright.”

“What happened?” James said, his voice rough. He propped himself on his elbows, expecting snow for a disconcerting moment, and William beside him. But there was only the graveyard, the churned earth, and corpses littering the ground in varying stages of decomposition. Some of the men of their party were still lying on the ground, while others were starting to climb to their feet.

Francis shook his shoulder gently, bringing James back to face him. “How do you feel, James?” he asked. “Do you know where you are? Why you’re here?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” James said, “I’m certainly confused, but I’m not hurt.”

Francis nodded, still peering at him closely. “Good, that’s good. Then you stay with Little, look after him. I have to check on the others.” Francis shook James one last time, then let go, heading to a clump of men further on.

James looked to the side and saw Little was sprawled out beside him, gazing up at the sky. James clapped him on the shoulder and they helped each other stand.

“What happened?” Little said, unconsciously echoing James.

“I’m not sure,” James said. The corpses they were battling continued to lay unmoving, even the ones that had not been touched with their blades. He looked up, but the branches of the trees were empty: no dead ones, no odd birds, just green leaves gently rustling in the wind.

“I saw the strangest things,” Little said, brow furrowed in confusion, “things I hadn’t thought about in a long time. It was—like I was dreaming.”

Yes, dreaming was a good word for it. It had felt so real to James, the cold and wet of the snow, the childish glee on William’s face. William himself. It had been so many years since James had seen him.

But that didn’t matter right now. Assured that Edward was upright and able to support himself, James went to help the others, doing a silent count as he did so. Most seemed to be upright and mostly alright, although some had been injured by the dead before whatever happened to stop them. There was only one man still on the ground, who Francis was crouched over him, muttering.

James walked to his side, and saw that it was Sir Gore still on the ground, eyes closed. He thought the worst for a moment before he saw his chest move slightly with his breath. He didn’t seem to be wounded; there was no blood anywhere on him and his face was peaceful, not pained.

It was like he was asleep, James realized, and simply refused to wake up.

“What’s happened to him?” James asked. Francis broke off his muttering long enough to snap the words “Enchanted sleep,” before he continued, his hands rising to hover over Gore’s head and stomach.

James wanted to ask if he would be alright, if there was anything he could do, but felt that Francis would not invite the interruption. He turned away and saw Sir John walking towards them, a deep frown on his face.

“How is he?” he asked urgently.

James shook his head. “I’m not sure; some kind of enchantment. Francis is trying to wake him.”

Francis broke off his muttering with a foul curse, one that made Sir John’s face crease even more. “It’s not working,” Francis said angrily, glaring up at them both, “I need my herbs.”

“He needs shelter and rest,” Sir John said evenly, looking back hard at Francis. “Just as we need an explanation of what precisely has happened here.”

“Do you want this man to live?” Francis asked harshly, glaring at Sir John, “because if you do then you need to listen to me. My herbs, James, please.”

With a last glance at Gore, James turned and headed to Francis’ horse. He didn’t know which herbs Francis needed, so he lifted the entire pack out of Francis’ saddlebags and quickly headed back.

He handed the pack to Francis, who took them without looking away from Gore. James stepped back a little, giving Francis room to dig through the pack and select what he needed, a pungent thing he waved under Gore’s nose while continuing to mutter. When nothing happened, Francis’ eyes slipped shut and his voice grew louder.

Sir John’s face was tense as he watched, one side streaked with dirt from the fight. He seemed transfixed by the tableau Francis and Gore presented, but it was not an expression James liked.

“We ought to secure the graveyard,” James said in a lowered tone to him, hoping the suggestion would distract him. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, where the men were dragging the limp bodies of the dead into an orderly line.

“There’s no point,” Sir John said distantly, not bothering to look at James.

“Why?”

“I’ve put them to rest,” Francis suddenly said, breaking off his mutterings. His hands dove back into his bag. “And the birds have left, they won’t be back this way.”

“Birds? What do you mean by that?” James asked.

Francis was already turned back to his task, selecting what looked like some kind of stone from his pack. He rested the stone on Gore’s forehead.

“Francis-”

“I don’t have time to explain right now, James,” Francis said, tone harsh. He glanced up at James, and the wild thing in his eyes calmed a little. “Later.”

“Yes, explanations will need to wait,” Sir John said suddenly, as if coming to a decision. “Right now, we’d best get moving.”

Francis turned to stare at Sir John. “We can’t. His condition is too delicate, we must stay until he’s healed.”

“Francis,” Sir John said gravely, his expression set in stone. There was something knowing in his eyes, as if he’d come to some realization that still escaped James. “I am in charge of this expedition. I know you believe you know best, but we cannot stay in this graveyard. We are carrying Gore to the nearest doctor and we are doing it now.”

“I can heal him,” Francis insisted.

“He needs a doctor, Francis, not a mage.” Sir John turned to James. “Fetch Sir Gore’s horse.”

“The nearest doctor may be miles away!” Francis protested. “If you want shelter, fine. But we should head to the village.”

“Francis,” Sir John said, tone cold in a way James had not heard before, “we are getting him to a real doctor. There’s a larger town up the track that will have one.”

Francis gaped at him. “That’s miles from here!”

“I will hear no protests to this,” Sir John commanded. “Fetch his horse,” he said again to James, and this time he obeyed.

Despite Francis’ continuing protests, they soon had Gore up on his horse; he was so limp in the saddle that Hartnell was forced to ride directly behind him to hold him up. James mounted up holding the reins of Hartnell’s horse.

“This is foolishness,” Francis insisted a last time, mounting his own horse. Evans, beside him, looked worried. “You could kill him by pressing on.”

“And he will definitely die if we stay here,” Sir John said, and started them off down the track. Francis, jaw clenched angrily, spurred his horse forward until he was next to Gore, the better to keep an eye on him as they travelled, James assumed.

It was a tense journey—Francis and Sir John were clearly both unhappy though both kept silent about it. But the silence was like a splinter and impossible to ignore—James could see that the others were discomforted by it, the anxiety and concern for Gore increasing with every minute. James fixed his eyes on Francis’ back, kept carefully straight in the saddle although his eyes never strayed from Gore’s face.

They made good time down the track, the horses keeping a steady but hurried pace. Hartnell kept a tight grip on Gore so that he barely rocked in the saddle. But the village Sir John said was so close did not appear and the sun fell ever closer to the horizon.

Still, they pressed on, even as darkness started to creep over the sky. James found himself staring intently into every growing shadow, the feeling of being watched not fading no matter how far they travelled from that terrible graveyard. Multiple times he heard Francis take a breath as if to speak but refrain from doing so, and his jaw seemed clenched ever tighter whenever James caught sight of his face.

The track ahead of their party crossed a small brook, so shallow the horses could cross it without issue. As James approached, he noticed there was a figure hunched by it half-hidden in shadow, a pile covered with a blanket beside them. It was an old woman, James realized, relaxing his grip on his sword, bent over the bubbling water and washing something.

“You there! Woman!” Sir John cried, stopping next to her. “Do you know how far it is to Bromwich?”

The old woman looked up at him from her washing. “Why, it’s a good twenty miles to Bromwich. You’ll never make it before nightfall.”

James frowned. By his reckoning, they should be far closer than that, unless they had gotten seriously lost in the woods. They would have had to be travelling in the wrong direction for hours to end up so far away, but that was impossible, unless the sun had decided to stop setting in the west.

Sir John, judging by the sour look on his face, was clearly thinking the same, but he did not challenge the woman’s assertion. “We need a doctor,” was all he said in reply.

“There’s an inn down the road that way, not too far,” the old woman said, pointing in the direction they were travelling. “There’s often a doctor who stays there as she makes the rounds. She should be there tonight.”

“Thank you,” Sir John replied, bowing deeply in the saddle. He started down the path again, followed quickly by Hartnell and Gore.

Francis glanced at the old woman as he rode by, then abruptly halted his horse. His eyes widened as he took her in, a look of horror crossing his face.

“Sir John,” he shouted forward, urgent, “we cannot go to this inn.”

Sir John turned his horse, riding back to pull up beside Francis. “Tell me, Francis, why is that?”

Francis gestured at the woman, and James, now across the stream, turned to appraise her. She was an ordinary old peasant woman, dressed simply and hair done plainly. His eyes fell to her hands and he suddenly grasped what Francis might have been spooked by.

She wasn’t washing clothing, as James had originally suspected. She was washing armor—in her hands was a breastplate, covered in blood. He could see a helmet, chainmail, gauntlets, and bloody sword in the pile next to her, all similarly covered in gore.

He looked away from the pile and caught the old woman’s eyes; she stared at him directly, her face impassive. She continued to rub the armor as she stared at him, and now James could see the liquid darkening her sleeves was not water.

“This is no ordinary woman,” Francis was saying, “it’s an omen, a bad one. We cannot continue this way.”

Sir John sighed deeply. “Francis, I believe you’ve misunderstood your role here. Your role is not to lead this expedition, nor is it to advise me on how to lead this expedition. Your sole role is to provide magical aid when requested. Nothing else.”

Francis bristled. “Is that not what I am doing?”

“No, it is not what you are doing,” Sir John snapped in a tone James had never heard before, “what you are doing is attempting to rise above your station. You are not a court mage any longer, you enjoy no privileges, and frankly, you deserve none. You should be grateful the king allowed you to show your face in the castle again, let alone to accompany us on this quest.”

James stared at Sir John, taking in the unfamiliar anger in his face. James’ gaze jumped to Francis, expecting him to leap back with some heated response. But Francis said nothing, his hands tightening on the reins.

“You seem bent on not listening to me, so let me be plain,” Sir John continued, his tone still ugly with anger, “it is common knowledge that you bear the responsibility for the failure of the last quest. I grant that you are a powerful mage, but you are no leader of men, and you are not capable of the loyalty it takes to serve a king. You are angry and you are miserable and hard to love, and rather than taking responsibility for it, you insist on blaming others.”

Francis continued to be silent. He glanced briefly to the side, and his eyes met James’. James looked away.

“I will not allow you to bring this quest to ruin as you did the last. I release you from your obligation to us.” Sir John pulled on the reins and his horse turned around. “Go back to your home, Francis. You are no longer welcome here.”

Sir John started to ride away; after a long hesitation, Hartnell spurred his horse on to follow, his eyes lingering on Francis. The others all rode past Francis, who was frozen on his horse in the middle of the stream, hands clenched on his reins and staring at the sky. Evans stopped beside him a long moment, trying to meet his eyes, before riding on.

Finally, only James remained. He waited until Francis finally looked at him.

“Francis-” he started, but Francis shook his head, his gaze dipping to the water. He mutely pulled the reins of his horse and turned off down the road. James watched his back, always so straight, as he rode away into the trees.

James finally left the stream to follow the others, hollowed out. He noticed the old woman had left sometime during their argument, the bloody armor gone without a trace.

_

James caught up with the others and they continued on in oppressive silence. James wondered if Sir John’s words were echoing in their heads as well, if the scene was replaying before them on a loop as it was for him. If the maelstrom of helplessness, guilt, pity, and shame was growing inside them as well.

Finally, James could stand it no more, and maneuvered Clio to the edge of the group, overtaking the others to join Sir John in the vanguard.

“I hope you don’t think I was too harsh, James,” Sir John said without looking at him, “I was simply doing what had to be done.”

“He was only trying to help, Sir John,” James said, keeping his voice quiet so as not to be overheard by the others.

Now Sir John looked at him, meeting his eyes in the gathering gloom. “What do you think happened in that clearing, James? Do you think we all spontaneously fell unconscious?”

Of course he didn’t—James had certainly been unconscious before and he’d never experienced the type of vision he’d had when down today, so real it might as well have been happening. And the idea that they had all been affected similarly in the exact same moment was far too great a coincidence to bear. 

“What do you think happened?” James asked, and even before Sir John spoke, he knew what he would say.

“I am saying that when Francis is faced with something, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He’s a persistent man, stubborn. In another situation, another man, it may be admirable.”

James breathed out slowly. “You don’t mean to suggest that Francis did something to us, to try to stop the quest. That he put Gore in this state maliciously?”

“Don’t be upset with yourself, James,” Sir John said, “I know what it is to know that man and be disappointed. I know you thought him a friend, but there are some things people are not meant to be to each other.”

James fell silent, wanting to deny Sir John’s assertions but uncertain how. And wasn’t it far too late to try to defend Francis’ honour now? Hadn’t that moment passed James by in an instance, while he sat there frozen and did nothing?

The track turned before them, twisting to the right and through a deeper copse of trees. It seemed there was a light on the other end, starting to glow brighter in the lengthening shadows. They emerged from the trees to find the track did indeed pass an inn, settled just off to the side in a clearing surrounded by trees. There were even other travellers settling into the inn, a few men tending to their horses just outside.

James turned in their direction, urging Clio on ahead of the group. One of the men looked up at his approach and James was struck by his red hair which seemed to so well compliment his darker red clothing.

“Good evening,” the man said, “do you gentlemen need help?”

“We do,” James said, quickly dismounting. “Is there a doctor here?”

“I believe so,” said the man, looking past James and obviously spotting Gore, who was now listing in the saddle despite Hartnell’s best efforts. “Come, we’ll get him inside and to her straightaway. Aethin, hold the horse steady.”

With the men’s help, they got Gore down from the horse and inside the inn. The ground floor was set up as a tavern, and the woman behind the bar pointed them toward a back room, where the doctor was waiting.

Soon, Gore was lying on a bed with the doctor hunched over him. She assessed him and started to rifle in her bag, pulling out bundles of herbs that looked very similar to the ones Francis had been using. James hurriedly looked away.

“Will he be alright?” he asked. The doctor looked at him quickly. Her hair was a flaming red which seemed to compliment the travellers who had helped them. Maybe they were related. 

“I’ll do what I can,” she said, and turned back to her work, clearly set on ignoring them. James and Sir John looked at each other and left the room.

“Hartnell, stay with him,” James said quietly to the lad, “I’ll send someone to relieve you soon.”

The young man looked tired but nodded gravely, entering the little room without a word.

Sir John had headed to the bar, finding them some food and accommodations in exchange for their coin. James spotted the rest of their group beginning to settle at some tables in the back, a few of the men coming in from stabling the horses.

James noticed Evans was already sitting at the table, hunched over it and picking at a scrape on the top. He looked heartsore and tired and James immediately felt terrible for not going to him earlier. This was probably his first battle today; James should have been at his side to protect him and at the very least should have been there to reassure him afterward.

He went over to Evans, put a hand on his shoulder. Evans looked up at him and started to straighten as if to stand, but James shook his head.

“No, it’s alright. Relax, eat something.” James paused. “I know today was a hard day but we’ll get some rest indoors tonight.”

Evans nodded, but he still looked glum, his gaze dropping disconsantly to the table again. He missed Francis, James realized. He was James’ squire, but he’d bonded with Francis almost from the first. It must feel hard to be here without him.

James sighed and privately admitted that he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. “Things will look better tomorrow,” he said to Evans and hoped it would be so.

The innkeep had their dinner in front of them shortly and the men finally seemed to relax slightly. The conversation was far from lively or carefree and all smiles were absent, except for Gibson, who was wrapped up in conversation with the man they’d first met and seemed pleased by their talk. Good for him; at least one of their number was enjoying themselves tonight.

As for James, he felt disconsolate, the harsh grind of despair lingering just under his skin. He found himself constantly glancing toward the periphery of their group and he knew he was looking for Francis. Each time he did not find him felt a new blow.

Evans was not the only one who missed Francis. James picked at his food, his stomach churning. He was not the only one who missed Francis, but at least Evans hadn’t failed the man before he left.

The men were starting to droop over their empty plates, and Sir John roused them to direct them upstairs to their sleeping quarters. They were set up in a pair of rooms for the night, sharing the two between them. Sir John agreed that a watch should be posted with Gore throughout the night, who hadn’t stirred so far, despite the doctor’s continuing efforts.

“Maybe we should post one outside the rooms as well,” James suggested hesitantly, his thoughts returning to Francis’ warning by the creek.

Sir John shook his head. “I’ll not have the men more exhausted than they already are. They need rest.” He looked at James closely. “Don’t let Francis’ words prey on your mind. He’s always been one to see threats where there are none. I won’t have his paranoia infect the men.”

James looked at Sir John for a long moment before nodding. He was clearly not in a mood to be tested right now. James would let it lie and act accordingly.

Irving was selected to watch over Gore for the first half of the night, with strict instructions to wake Sir John if Gore started to come around before he took the second shift. Sir John took Collins and Gibson into his room, which only had one bed Sir John would share with his squire, consigning Gibson to the floor. James claimed the second room, with Evans, Little, and Peglar to share the two beds and Hartnell on the floor. Hartnell immediately turned to spreading his bedroll out, looking positively done in.

“Hartnell,” James said, “take the bed.” He gestured to the bed he and Evans were meant to share.

“Sir?”

“I’m going to post a watch,” James continued, meeting Little’s eyes, “Sir Little will take the second watch, Peglar the third. We’ll stay inside the room so as not to alert or bother the guests, but we should be able to hear well enough.”

Little nodded gravely while the squires exchanged glances.

“Do you think there will be trouble, sir?” Evans asked.

James tried to look reassuring. “I don’t think so, but I’d prefer to be careful. Now get some rest, all of you. I know it’s been a hard day.”

The men settled down quickly enough. Evans and Hartnell were asleep as soon as James blew the candle out, curled into each other on their bed like children. James settled in his chair by the door and waited.

Nothing happened during his watch. The inn was quiet except the occasional step of other guests walking down the hall, conversing in the other rooms, or the clinking of plates downstairs. As time went on and the night truly set in, those sounds petered away until all James heard was the soft snoring of the men and the occasional animal sound from outside.

It gave him time to think over the events of the day. It still made no sense to him, what had happened with the undead. He’d fought the undead before but he’d never encountered ones able to bespell a man, and with magic so strong Francis had been unable to shift it from Gore.

For he knew that Sir John was misplaced in his suspicions. Francis had no malicious will toward these men. Yes, he could be angry, and stubborn, that was true. The man was no saint, but neither were any of them, neither was James. He’d seen Francis with these men and there was no resentment there, no urge to harm them. Why, he’d just seen Francis and Gore sharing a quiet conversation over the campfire the other night and been gladdened to know that Francis was making some friendly connection with the men.

Whatever his flaws, Francis was not a good liar. He was too sincere for that. There was no way he could pretend to be friendly with a man only to turn on him days later.

James should have interfered. He could have spoken sense to Sir John. Now Francis was gone, having been banished from a quest he was only on because James had practically begged him. He almost wished Francis had left angrily, shouting and spitting as James knew he was capable. His distraught silence was far worse and James knew Sir John’s words had hit their mark.

It wasn’t right, what had happened tonight. James would have to go to him after this quest was over, find Francis again at that little cottage in the woods, and apologize.

He drifted with his thoughts for the rest of his watch, listening to his men’s snores and musing on what Francis’ face would look like when James showed up penitent on his front step.

_

James went to bed exhausted, Little take his place at the door. It felt like he’d barely fallen asleep when he was being shaken awake. He looked up to see Peglar leaning over him, nodding toward the door where Little was standing, his ear pressed against the wood.

“What is it?”

“There’s strange noises,” Peglar whispered, and now that James was listening, he could hear them too. There was a rhythmic scraping noise coming from downstairs, and the occasional thunk, like a knife going into wood. It immediately made his hair stand on end.

James crept from the bed, swiftly stepping into his boots and buckling on his sword belt. He joined Little by the door.

“It just started a few minutes ago,” Little whispered, very quietly, “It doesn’t sound like anyone else is awake.”

As he said that, the sound of soft foot falls came from outside—someone had exited a room and was walking downstairs. The sounds from downstairs continued, now joined by a curious grinding, like a mortar and pestle.

James turned and glanced at the men; they’d all dressed as much as they could quickly, and the squires had lifted their packs onto their shoulders. He and Little would have no time to put on their armor, but it would have to do.

He gestured Little to back up and, with one hand on his sword, eased the door open very slightly.

The hall was empty, whoever had exited long gone. But there was a door open across the hall, open to gaping blackness and James immediately knew something was terribly wrong. That was the room Sir John and the others were in, and no matter how secure Sir John felt, they would not have left the door unlocked, let alone open.

He stepped into the hall, gesturing Little to follow him. Peglar, right behind him, pulled the door most the way closed, leaving a small gap for Evans and Hartnell to peer through.

James crossed the hall quickly, keeping his hand ready on his sword. He briefly cursed himself for not bringing a candle and thought about sending Peglar back when the cloud in front of the moon cleared away and moonlight swept dimly into the room.

For a second, James thought the men were only sleeping and he had indeed overreacted. But something still struck him as wrong and urged him onward. He crept further into the room, crouching down to put his hand on Gibson’s shoulder to wake him. And realized it was an impossible task, for no man could survive having his throat torn open in such a manner.

Now that he was close, he could see that the bedroll was not dark, but covered in blood that looked black in the moonlight. The bed was similar and Little turned over the body in it to reveal Irving, face frozen in shock. Little paused, his face twisting in grief, before reaching out to close his eyes.

“We need to get out of here,” Little whispered, still looking at Irving.

“We need to find Sir John and Collins,” James said, tearing his eyes away from the bodies. All their equipment was still here, except for Sir John’s sword. If Irving was here, it was late enough that Sir John had replaced him on watch. Which meant he was downstairs, where the noises continued.

Little halted as he started to walk away from Irving’s bed, as if he’d heard or seen something. James drew nearer and watched sharply as Little bent down to look under the bed.

“It’s Collins,” he said, flipping up the sheet hanging over the edge of the bed to reveal Collins. His eyes were shockingly white in the dark blood painted across his frozen and terrified face.

What had happened here?

James put a hand on Little’s shoulder, pulling him up and back toward the door and out into the hall where the squires were waiting.

“We’ll need to be quick,” he said to them all, “we don’t know where Sir John is. We need to get him and Gore and get out of here, as fast as we can. Peglar and Hartnell, get outside quickly and fetch the horses. Evans, stick close to me and Little, we’ll need your help to get Gore.”

If he was still alive. If whatever beast had done that to his men hadn’t already done the same to Gore and the rest of the guests, including the doctor.

But his men were nodding, accepting his whispered instructions and readying for action. James nodded to them all and started to head towards the stairs. They seemed to descend into infinite blackness; there were absolutely no lights shining downstairs and the moonlight didn’t seem to be shining in. 

Their party was only halfway there when there was a slam from downstairs and light suddenly exploded in the room. A chorus of shrieks went up.

“Where are they?” a voice snarled, and James almost went weak at the sound. Francis.

He couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity—he led the men down the stairs in a charge, hoping to make the best use of Francis’ entrance. The tavern was now a scene out of a nightmare—chairs and tables had been pushed against the wall to make room for a massive pot, bubbling over a low fire. There were two bodies next to the pot, hacked to pieces and with big gaps of flesh missing. Figures were crouched next to them, cowering away from the light still emitting from Francis’ staff.

The figures started to turn and James pushed himself, charging forward. He quickly dispatched one of the figures as they started to stand. It was the doctor, he realized—she was holding a ladle now, wet from the pot. She fell with a cry next to one of the bodies, the one bearing Gore’s face.

Little was locked in combat with one of the other figures, this one having managed to grab a sword. James whirled at the sound of footsteps to lock blades with another man—their swords met briefly before a surge of pure energy blasted the man off his feet and into the wall. He hit hard and crumpled to the floor.

“James! To me!” Francis shouted from the door, his staff held aloft and shining so brightly it pushed back the darkness.

“Go! We’ll cover you to the door!” James shouted to the squires, turning to block another strike from the figure before him. It was the man who had greeted them at the door so welcomingly, the one who’d spent the evening conversing so pleasantly with Gibson. Now he was wild eyed, covered in so much blood it looked like his skin was painted red, especially around his mouth. As James blocked his blow, he opened his mouth to speak, but only a hoarse exhalation emerged—the man’s tongue was missing.

James struck out at him, feinting to the left, but Hickey parried his blow with ease and came at him lightning fast, trying to box him in against the steaming pot. James could feel the heat of the iron at his back, could feel his boots sticking in the blood on the floor.

James stepped back again, playing for space, and barely dodged another figure leaping out of the shadows to strike. It put him off balance and the first man lunged forward with an inhuman snarl, his sword flashing. James brought up his sword a second too late, feeling pain bloom along his side.

“James!” Francis shouted again and there followed a loud boom. The inn started to shake around them and the light increased ten fold; pressure began to build up in James’ head, along with a loud buzzing like a swarm of bees surrounded him. Above it all, he could hear Francis chanting, so loudly he was shouting.

James couldn’t see anymore; the light was too blinding. He followed the sound of Francis’ voice, feeling a tug in his gut compelling him in that direction. Paradoxically, the light seemed to diminish the closer he got and soon enough he could squint his eyes open again to see Francis just steps in front of him. His face was set in harsh lines, his head tipped back. He was holding his staff aloft, his cloak streaming in the wind that was picking up in the room. As James got closer, he could see his eyes were rolled back in his head, even as his chanting grew louder and the inn groaned in protest.

James glanced behind him—their attackers were cowering on the ground, mouths open in screams that James had no hope of hearing over the noise. The others were nowhere to be seen; James had to hope they’d managed to make it outside.

He turned back to Francis as he finally reached him. His chanting was louder, his magic growing wilder and the inn seemed ready to tear itself apart. But Francis showed no sign of stopping, even as blood began to trickle from his nose and ears, as the lines of concentration in his eyes started to turn to pain.

“Francis,” James said, but couldn’t hear himself. “Francis!” he shouted and dared to reach out and grab him by shoulder. Francis’ eyes snapped to his, flaring bright blue like the hottest part of a fire.

“You can let go now,” James said, and somehow Francis heard him over the din. Ignoring the blood still streaming from his nose, Francis grabbed James’ arm in a vice grip and stepped backward, pulling James with him.

It was only a step forward, but James felt like he was stretching, covering miles in a single stride. He stumbled and stopped, the vertigo almost pulling him to the ground. He looked at Francis, who was bent over and breathing heavily beside, still holding onto James with an iron tight grip.

“Are you alright?” James panted, swallowing heavily in an effort to stifle his nausea.

“Yes,” Francis grit out, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “Portals always take something out of me.” He looked up at James and wiped the blood away from his face, smearing it across his cheek. “Check on the others.”

James looked around, and saw the rest of the men gathered across the clearing, sitting in the grass or staring out into the darkness, weapons drawn.

“Thank God,” James whispered. Francis groaned some kind of agreement next to him and sat heavily in the grass, his continuing grip on James’ arm pulling him into an awkward lean.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” James asked, crouching in front of him. 

“I’ll be fine,” Francis said, letting his head rest in his free hand, “I just need to sit for a moment. Go on.”

James put his hand on Francis’ where it still gripped James’ arm. Francis looked up at him blearily.

“Thank you,” James said quietly. Francis quirked his lips in a smile.

“Go on,” he said again, and finally released James’ arm.

James stood, quickly heading over to the men across the clearing. Little was pacing by them and ran straight to James as soon as he saw him.

“You’re alright?” Little asked, gaze darting over James. 

“Yes,” James said, patting him on the shoulder, “how are the men?”

“Frightened, but largely unharmed apart from the odd scratch. What was that?” Little asked, still wild looking around the eyes.

“That,” Francis said, and James turned to see him hobbling toward them, “was the Other Realm. You crossed over when you entered the inn.”

James looked behind Francis, and saw the inn was gone. It hadn’t been destroyed, hadn’t shaken to pieces under the force of Francis’ magic as he suspected it would—it was gone, completely, as if it had never existed.

“How long have we been gone?” James asked. He’d heard tales of those who crossed over to the other realm, how years passed in the mortal world in what felt like seconds there. Those hapless travelers returned to their world to find all they loved long dead.

“Only a night,” Francis said, starting to list to the side. “I...came after you. Sensed the crossing.” James hurriedly stepped forward to offer his arm for Francis to lean on. He did so with a thankful look.

“Then we owe you our lives twice over,” Little said, looking at Francis appraisingly. “Thank you.”

Francis looked at him, seeming unsure what to say. Finally, he simply nodded.

“What do our supplies look like?” James asked.

Little sighed. “We have nothing except what we carried out. There wasn’t enough time to get the horses out of the stables before it was all gone. I think Hartnell, Evans, and Peglar managed to save a few of the bags, but we’ll need to do a proper assessment of what we have.”

James spared a thought for Clio and all their other horses, trapped forever in the Other Realm. Who knew what their fates would be.

And without the horses, they were in dire straits. They’d been in such a hurry to escape the inn, neither he nor Little had time to bring any of their armour or supplies. James himself had only his sword; he hadn’t even taken his shield with him.

“Agreed,” he said, “but first we need to leave this place. I want to be as far from this clearing as we can get before we stop to rest.”

“I don’t think any man here will protest that,” Little said.

James nodded. “Gather the men, tell them we’ll be leaving. If there truly are no injuries to prevent it, we’ll leave in ten minutes.”

“Yes sir,” Little said, and moved back to the men.

“You’ll want to have yourself looked at before you leave,” Francis said. James looked at him in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Francis stared at him. “James, you’re bleeding.”

James glanced down at himself, and saw it was true; there was a blood stain on his tunic. He remembered the sudden pain he’d felt during the fight.

“Must have got a lucky blow in,” James huffed a little laugh.

“Lift your tunic up, let me look,” Francis said, a focused look clearing the remaining blurriness from his eyes.

James mutely did so, drawing his shirt up. Francis bent, peering at his chest. James craned his head to get a glance—the wound was still bleeding sluggishly, but it didn’t appear to be serious. Oddly enough, it was very close to the scar James had earned from his battle with the griffin. And here Francis was, saving his life again.

“It’s not bad,” Francis said after a moment. “Let me wrap it.” Francis bent over and James realized he had his pack slung over his shoulder.

“Did you bring that with you? I notice your horse isn’t here.”

Francis glanced up at him. “I didn’t know what I’d find on the other side. I didn’t bring the horse though—she must have ran at the force of so much magic.”

Francis cleaned the injury quickly and set about wrapping it. James watched his hands, steady even after expending so much power earlier.

“Did you have any idea what you were walking into?” James asked quietly. Francis looked at him for a long moment before continuing bandaging the wound. James took that as his answer.

“Why did you come back?” He asked quietly. “You cannot have expected Sir John to be grateful for your help.”

Francis said nothing for a long moment as he finished putting the bandage in place. He smoothed the bandage down and turned back to his pack, not looking at James.

“I don’t believe in this Quest,” he said finally, quietly, “but I don’t believe you should die for it, either.”

It was such a simple thought, and yet it pierced James all the same. “Thank you,” James said, then added wryly, “please accept it this time.”

Francis snorted a laugh, glancing up at him with a small smile. It was the first honest smile he’d seen from Francis in too long, and it almost hurt to witness it. But it didn’t quite detract from the red blare of blood streaking across his face.

“Do you have any water?” James asked.

“A little,” Francis said, digging in his pack and then passing James a small flask.

James took it, then knelt before Francis, ripping a strip from the bottom of his tunic. He soaked the fabric, then lifted it gently to wipe at Francis’ face. Francis watched him silently until the blood was gone and James’ hand fell back to his lap.

“I have no right to ask this, but I will ask it anyway,” James whispered, just so the two of them would hear. “Will you come with us?”

Francis said nothing, his face falling into the same distressed lines that had become so familiar to James now. Finally, he nodded, and James breathed a sigh of relief.

“Then we should go,” James said, and helped Francis back to his feet.

_

The men were just as eager to leave as James was and walked for hours without complaint. But James couldn’t ask them to walk forever, even if any of them had gotten a full night’s sleep. In the afternoon, James called them to an early halt by a small stream in the forest and told them to set up camp.

It had little resemblance to the campsites they’d set in the past few weeks. None of their tents survived, all of them having been stored with the horses. What supplies had been saved consisted solely of whatever was in the bags the squires had managed to grab on their way out. It didn’t amount to much.

James looked around their little campsite and saw the same exhaustion he felt reflected in the faces around him. The men were tired after a hard night followed by hours of marching. They deserved a rest, even though a part of James still wanted to drive forward.

Little and Peglar returned shortly with a small amount of food they’d managed to forage from the surrounding woods.

“I know it’s not much,” Little said apologetically.

“It’ll do,” James replied, eyeing the ragged berries and small plums. “Eat what you can, men, then get some sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”

“And I’ll take the second,” Francis cut in abruptly, looking at James with determination. James met his gaze evenly—it was a test, he discerned. Francis wanted James to prove that he trusted him with something like watching over the men as they slept. He listened to the silence around them as the men waited to see how this would play out, and knew if he refused Francis in this moment, he would be gone by morning, no matter what James had asked of him before.

“Agreed,” James said and let himself absorb the relief visible on Francis’ face for a moment. “Hartnell, you’ll take third.”

Hartnell nodded and, alongside the other men, turned to setting up his sleeping arrangements. They had no bedrolls; the men would need to find something within their own small bags of belongings to try and cobble something together that was marginally comfortable. The sun was only just beginning to draw close to the trees, but James knew none of the men had any desire to be awake for longer than they had to be today.

Even Francis was not spared discomfort from their lack of supplies, having lost his saddlebags when his horse spooked and ran. He shared out what he had though—the bag of herbs that was tied to his belt went to Peglar to serve as a pillow and he pressed his cloak on Evans to use as a blanket.

James turned to his own bag, the one Evans had carried into the inn last night and somehow managed to remember to grab on their way out. Unfortunately, there was little that would help them keep warm during the night, just the usual assortment of hardtack and supplies to care for armour he no longer possessed. He paused as his fingers passed over something cool and hard, drawing it into the light.

It was the griffin brooch, having shaken loose of its wrapping but miraculously undamaged. The griffin’s gemstone eyes shone in the light as he rubbed his thumb over them. He’d almost forgotten he’d brought it along, some odd fit of melancholy and pique refusing to let him leave it behind when he was packing. He’d been half of a mind to hawk it somewhere when they’d left the court. It was a comfort to see it now and know he had not lost it forever in the Other Realm.

“What do you have there?” James looked up; Francis was standing next to him, peering curiously at James’ hand. James curled his fingers around the brooch and tucked it back into his bag.

“Nothing,” he said, “nothing important.”

Francis didn’t quite agree, judging by the look on his face, but he evidently decided not to press. He sat down next to James on the ground, settling to stare into the distance much as James was doing.

“The men have all settled alright,” Francis said, “it will be a cold night for us all, but we’ll make it through until morning.”

James nodded and felt the weight of command finally start to press down on him. The urgency of their flight, the visceral need he felt to get as far from that forest glade as possible had faded, leaving behind only guilt, and shame, and doubts.

He was not prepared for this; it was less of a notion and more of a fact. Yes, he’d led men before in battle. Yes, he had years of experience dealing with all manner of supernatural entities. But it was a conceited thing to think he could do any better than Sir John had, Sir John whose corpse now lay defiled and far beyond their reach to give a proper burial. Sir John, whose death James had not prevented, despite all the care he had taken.

If any of them were to live through this, James was not the man to make that happen.

“What was that?” James asked, still looking at the ground. “That happened in the clearing this afternoon?”

Francis sighed. “I should have told you earlier,” he said, his voice coloured with regret.

“You were focused on Gore,” James replied, doing his best to put aside the shoot of shame inside him at the name. Another man he had failed.

Francis shook his head. “Maybe if I had, Sir John would not have pushed on. Maybe I could have prevented all this.” He gestured around them, the darkening trees, the men clumped together and laying on the ground.

“The responsibility of preventing that did not lie with you,” James said.

James could see Francis turn to look at him out of the corner of his eye. “What do you mean?”

“Sir John would never have listened to you. You and I both know that, better than any man here.” James made himself look at Francis. “He would have listened to me. He would have heard me.”

Francis said nothing, just sat looking at James closely. James swallowed and forced the confession to emerge.

“I did not doubt you. I did not doubt you and yet I did not defend you. As I should have done as your companion in this endeavour. As your friend.”

A peculiar expression of uncertainty crossed Francis’ face, as if he could not credit what he was hearing. “You could not have known what would happen.”

“It should not matter if I knew what would happen,” James said, some the urgency he felt beginning to seep into his tone. “It was wrong. And I ask your forgiveness.”

Francis' expression shifted, uncertainty fading to be replaced by a tenderness James felt bruised by. “They were not your words,” Francis said, very quietly.

“And yet I must own them, all the same.”

Francis stared at him for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. “If you require me to say it, I forgive you. But know I do not consider your actions to merit a need for it.”

James snorted derisively. “Of course my actions merit a need for it. And not just from you: from Sir John, from Sir Gore, from Sir Irving, and poor Gibson, and from every man here.”

Francis was fully turned to him now, his stare penetrating. “What are you talking about?”

James sighed harshly, the words too ensnared in the feelings to make their way out. He readjusted to his original track. “Tell me what happened with the dead.”

Francis looked confused, but he responded gamely. “It was the birds, in the trees around us. They’re enchanted beasts—their song wakes the dead and puts the living to sleep.” Francis shook his head. “I’ve never seen them in the flesh before, I’ve only heard tell of them. From what I understand, they’re very rare.”

James shook his head, a wondering huff of a laugh escaping him. “That is what I mean,” he said, gesturing to Francis. “You know it all—the dead, the inn. You know what to watch for.”

Francis frowned, his confusion edging into suspicion. “James-”

“I need you with me,” James cut him, his fervency clear in his voice, but oh, he didn’t care right now. The need felt too great. “If any of us are to make it through, I need you with me. To guide me. To ensure my judgment.”

Francis started shaking his head, something frantic in his face. “James, you cannot ask that of me. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me.” He reached out impulsively, put his hand on Francis’ knee. “Tell me.”

And, wonder of wonders, Francis looked at him a long moment, and did.

“We encountered some strange things in our quest, monsters acting oddly under a magic I’d never seen before,” he started slowly. “But everything seemed to be proceeding alright, no serious injuries, no deaths. So we pressed on, Ross and I.” Francis swallowed heavily. “We wanted to bring it back, the Grail. We all had our reasons but mine were more selfish than most.” He slanted a look at James. “You know part of this already.”

“What do you mean?” James frowned.

“Sophia,” Francis said, “Sir John told you true—I loved her. I wanted to marry her. She rejected me and I...I thought that if I helped bring back the Grail, she may look at me differently, even though I knew Sir John would never allow it even if her feelings changed.”

James squeezed Francis’ knee gently. “It’s no less noble to go on a quest to win a woman’s love than to win glory and honour. Your intentions were good.”

Francis shook his head quickly, some ugly feeling creasing his face. “Don’t try to justify my actions, James. You don’t know it all yet.”

“Then tell me.”

Francis paused, for so long James thought he might stop there.

“It was my fault,” he finally said, whispered and choked. James peered at him and saw his eyes were wet. “The quest failing, it was my fault.”

James ached for him, for the misery in his face, his voice. He squeezed Francis’ knee again and this time Francis’ hand leapt up and landed across James’. “Tell me, Francis.”

Francis looked up into the darkening sky, his jaw set. “We came to a part of the country I’d never been to before, due west from the court. There’s no reason to go there, it lies dead.” He shot a significant look at James, and James thought of that dead place they’d journeyed through, the one where no villages lay and no travellers passed.

“We’d heard rumours of a beast there,” Francis continued. “Some amalgam of creatures. We thought it a monster, terrorizing the people there. More importantly, we thought it part of our quest, and so we set off to the slay it.”

He shook his head, his face tight with misery. “I should have known better; at least I should have spoken to the people there of the beast. But I was too drunk to think straight.” His voice sank into a bitter harshness, like a lash whipping his own back. His hand tightened spasmodically on James’.

“I’d always been one to drink, had been since I was a lad. But it got worse the longer I was at court, and when I truly realized Sophia and I would never be together in the way that I wanted, that even then I did not have the court’s respect, I saw little reason to keep acting as if I did.”

Francis' eyes fell away from the sky, drifting down until they came to rest on the ground. Shame limned every line of his body. “I fell into drink, let myself drown in it. And I did my best to hate anyone who tried to stop me.”

“And did they?” James asked, ever so quietly. Francis nodded, his face twisting with added misery.

“There was a knight with us, Blanky,” he said, hushed. His mouth quirked up in a brief, but fond, smile. “A good man, one of the best I’ve ever known. You always know where you stand with him.”

The smile faded. “He tried to help me. Tried to wake me from my misery, stop me from killing myself. But I didn’t care and I hated him for trying to save me.”

Francis glanced at James before looking back at the ground, swallowing hard. James squeezed his knee briefly. “We had an argument the night before we faced the beast. I was upset, I said things I regretted. And I spent the rest of the night drinking, telling myself I could always sober up for morning.”

His voice twisted with hatred. “But the beast was impatient, and it came on us that night. I’d never seen anything like it before or since—part snake, part hart, part lion, and part leopard. For all it’s strangeness, it moved like lightning.”

He levelled a look at James, hard and unswerving. “It swept through us like fire, carving the men to pieces. I killed the beast in the end, but not before it claimed Blanky’s leg.”

James imagined the scene, the monster ripping the men apart, the men dying in horror and pain, and Francis caught in the middle of it all. No wonder he’d tried to run from it all in the end.

“I needed to save his life,” Francis continued. “Once I stopped the bleeding, I begged Ross to return to the castle. He agreed, and we forsook the quest.”

He snorted, regret staining his face. “But the damage was already done—the beast was no magical monster, it was connected to the land in some way. Even as we were leaving, the crops were withering, the trees losing their leaves even in the height of summer. It’s dead now, that land, withered, and all its people were forced to leave or starve.”

Francis finally fell silent, his words seeming to abruptly dry up and leaving his staring at the ground. James sat a moment with his own thoughts, absorbing all Francis had told him. Many things about Francis made sense now—his devotion to the peasants in the countryside, his refusal to drink. James felt a stab of guilt at the memory of his words to Francis the night of the party.

And of course, his reluctance, confusion, and rage at their quest made all the more sense now. For the Grail had already demanded a heavy toll from Francis.

“You fear the same happening this time,” James finally said.

“Yes,” Francis said baldly. “We already lost half our men and barely survived with the rest. How can we continue in good faith? We are responsible for these men’s lives.” Francis shook his head, meeting James’ eyes. “I don’t want to carry the weight of more death.”

“You want to turn back.” James realized.

“Yes.”

James shook his head, his mind awhirl. “I don’t know if I can do that, Francis. The Grail could still be within our grasp. Do we not owe it to the men who died to find it, so they have not died in vain?”

Francis’ face shuttered. “And how much blood will need to spill before we reach it? How many more of your men will need to die to satisfy this quest?”

James flinched away from his words. They came too close to the open wounds left behind by the men who’d died today. He glanced at the men sleeping across from them; could James bear their deaths too, if it meant bringing the Grail back? Could James return to court, stained with the blood of those he’d failed, as long as he was clutching a holy vessel?

He was brought back to Francis by the grip of his hand, briefly tight on James’. “I know that you’re brave,” he said, quietly. “I know that you’re loyal. Those qualities do you credit. But they will not save you here.”

James said nothing. An element of anguish entered Francis’ expression. “I don’t say these things to hurt you. I know this quest is important to you, that you think it will prove something about you. I thought the same.” Francis hesitated, then picked up James’ hand in both of his own, enfolding it between his palms. “Please. I don’t want you to end up like me.”

James said nothing for a long moment, his thoughts flurried and the warmth of Francis’ hands flurrying them further. “I need to think,” he said.

Francis nodded. “Then do so. I’ll leave you alone.” He placed James’ hand back on his knee, and James felt colder with his absence.

Francis stood and turned away. He stopped when James spoke. “Thank you, Francis.”

Francis looked over his shoulder at him. “You’ve thanked me enough for one day.”

James smiled wryly. “Then I’ll start again in the morning.”

Francis huffed a tired laugh. “Wake me for my watch.”

“I will. Sleep well, Francis.”

Francis made his way to the men, folding to the ground beside Evans. He mumbled a little in his sleep, his eyes opening blearily long enough for him to pass Francis half the cloak. Then all was quiet again as they settled down to sleep.

James sat alone with his thoughts as the sun drifted below the horizon. He was thinking about the scene at the creek, Sir John’s voice harsh with anger. Then the splash of blood and ruined body parts that were all that remained of Sir John, so few hours later. He was thinking of the conversations he’d had with Gore and Irving over the years and how he would never speak to them again in this life, how their last moments had been full of pain and confusion. He was thinking of how young the squires were, especially little Evans, and how it would feel to face the boy’s family and confront the knowledge that he had not done all he could to preserve the boy’s life. He was thinking of the way he’d imagined returning to court at the beginning of this, head held high and proud of this thing he had done.

He was thinking of the simple joy of doing a good deed because it was good and the comfort that came of sitting quietly beside a lit hearth with a friend.

It would ruin him, destroy any standing he’d earned, if he came back to court empty-handed. His name would be worthless after that, just as worthless as it had been before he’d reinvented himself as Sir James.

But maybe it was better to be worthless, than to be the Sir James this quest demanded. He did not know who that Sir James was, but he did not think he liked him.

Time passed and night set in. James waited, setting the fire with the flint they’d saved, curiously content.

Finally, he stepped softly up to where Francis was sleeping, crouching beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. Francis came awake immediately, his eyes wide as they met James’ before he seemed to fully realize where he was.

“My watch?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

James nodded, and didn’t move as Francis started to stand. Francis paused, still on the ground.

“What is it, James?” he whispered.

He met Francis’ eyes, dark in the firelight. “You’re right. We’ll start back to the castle in the morning.”

Francis didn’t say anything, didn’t smile or laugh or seem overjoyed as James half-expected. Instead, he put his hands on James’ shoulders and looked James steadily in the eye, shaking him ever so slightly. It filled the hollow place inside of James, the place where his doubts lived.

“We’ll tell the men in the morning,” Francis said quietly. “For now, rest.”

James nodded, and let Francis direct him to his own sleeping space, let Francis put the free half of his cloak around his shoulders. He watched Francis pick his way to James’ previous seat by the fire and let Francis’ silhouette blur before his eyes until he fell asleep.

_

James slept well that night, against all odds. If he dreamed, he did not remember them.

He woke to a camp already in motion—Little and Evans were nowhere in sight, presumably off somewhere looking for their breakfast. Peglar and Hartnell were gathered around the coals of the fire, Hartnell poking them with a stick. Francis was already awake too, although he had not gone to the fire. Instead, he sat next to James, the cloak that covered James also spread across Francis’ lap. He looked up at Francis and saw he was already looking back, watching James quietly.

“How did you sleep?” Francis asked in a hushed tone.

James rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Better than I thought I would.” He glanced at Peglar and Hartnell. “Have you told them yet?”

Francis shook his head, following James’ gaze. “No. It wouldn’t be my place.”

James sighed, and sat up, letting the cloak slip from his shoulders to his lap. “I’ll wait until after breakfast. No reason to do it on empty stomachs.”

Little and Evans returned soon, Evans smiling and a pheasant in his arms. It would provide little enough meat, split between the six of them, but it would be something. Soon enough, the bird was plucked, cooked, and shared out between the lot of them. They ate in silence, too focused on savouring the warmth of the food.

Finally, the food was gone and the coal had gone cold. It was time to move on.

“Men,” James said, and all eyes shot to him. Nerves simmered deep within him, but more pervasive was his sense of calm certainty that he was making the right decision here, whatever the cost to himself.

“Gather your things; we have a long journey ahead of us.” The men nodded, varying expressions of weariness drifting across faces.

“And our course?” Little asked, the impassivity of his face not quite enough to hide the resignation lurking there.

“East. We’ll be heading due east today, then south-east in a few days time.”

“East?” Little asked. The squires glanced at each other in confusion.

James nodded and took the plunge. “We’re going home, Sir Little. I’ll not risk more lives for this. In a few weeks time, we’ll all be safe back in our beds and we’ll all feel the better for it.”

Peglar and Evans were fighting smiles. Hartnell looked so relieved, he seemed near tears. Little seemed too shocked to move. And that bruising tenderness was back in Francis’ eyes as he gazed at James, too much for James to take in.

“The king will not forgive this,” Little said, his voice worried. James nodded.

“I don’t imagine he will. You are all to tell him I coerced you to this. I’ll not have the blame fall on any of you,” James said, meeting all their eyes equally.

“Or you can tell him I coerced you,” Francis said, one brow lifting in wry amusement when James shot him a glare. “It’s not as if he wouldn’t believe it.”

“Regardless of what we tell the king,” James said, with one last glare at Francis, “we are not staying here. Gather your belongings; we’ll leave shortly.”

The men scrambled to their feet, heading to their own little bags. Little came before James and gripped his arm.

“Thank you, Sir James,” he said. James just nodded, uncertain how to respond to being thanked for considering their lives more than something easily spent. Little let go and headed to the squires, bending to help Peglar repack one of the bags.

“I know this isn’t a decision you came to rashly,” Francis said quietly beside him. James glanced at him; he continued to watch the men pack, something far away in his face. James wondered if his mind had returned to the previous quest, this moment played out with far more blood and anguish. “You know what the consequences will be for you.”

“Yes. Somehow, I don’t think the life of a village healer will suit me.” The comment, wry and teasing, brought Francis back and his eyes shifted to James’ face.

“What will you do?” he asked.

James paused, thinking. “I’ve always found the notion of being a knight errant a compelling one. Going where the wind takes me, guided by adventure and the chivalric code. If I hadn’t gone to court, I think I would have followed that path.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” Francis said, a small smile on his face. “As long as the wind takes you by my cottage, every now and then.”

James released a quiet, ragged breath and smiled back. “I know it will.”

_

Soon, the men were ready and the set off due east. The travel went easy that day—the weather was good and the terrain easy. They were still cold when they camped that night, but James found he slept well again and woke refreshed and sure of himself.

The next morning, they spotted a track leading to a village just around the bend. James hesitated at the sight of it, glancing at Francis.

“I don’t sense anything malicious,” Francis said. James nodded and looked back at the village in the distance. It was too precious an opportunity; they had not been starving, foraging and hunting for food, but James knew the lack of supplies and the cold nights were wearing on the men, even with the renewed vigour that had struck them at the prospect of home. If they could even gain a few blankets here, it would be worth the lost time.

Mind made up, James turned to Little. “Stay here, rest. Francis and I will go on and see what supplies we can gather. We’ll be back shortly.”

Little nodded, and James and Francis set off, crossing to the packed earth of the track. It felt quite different under James’ feet after the soft loam of the forest paths they had been following for the past day.

On the edges of the village, they came across a hut, with a few animals wandering the nearby pen. A woman was seated on a stool beside a cow, milking the cow in front of her. James eyed her pail and decided that if this woman had the milk to spare and would accept what coin they’d managed to save, the men deserved a good, warm meal, to bolster them.

He and Francis shared a glance and headed over to her.

“Excuse me,” James said. The woman looked over her shoulder at them. “Would you be able to spare some food for my men and I? We can pay you well for it.”

“Indeed?” the woman said, at the same time Francis drew in a sharp breath and moved closer to her.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, and now James could see it was true—there were spots of blood starting to appear on the arm of the woman’s dress. She looked down at them with a wince and sighed.

“The damn goat bit me this morning,” she said, “but the cow still needed milking so I figured a bandage would do for now.”

“It could get infected,” Francis said, already stooping to kneel at the lady’s side. “I can heal you.”

“And what would I owe you?” the woman asked shrewdly, eyeing Francis.

“A name,” Francis said with a soft look, “mine is Francis, and this is James.” James dipped into a bow.

The woman smiled. “Well met. My name is Morgan.”

“It’s good to meet you, Morgan,” James said, an absent thought flitting through his mind that the name had certainly become popular among the peasantry.

Morgan held out her arm to Francis, who pulled her sleeve up gently and started inspecting the wound. After a few moments of poking, he let his hand hover over her arm and murmured a few soft words.

“You have magic,” Morgan said, her eyes flicking up to focus on Francis’ face. “That is a great gift.”

Francis’ lips crooked into a bitter thing and he said nothing. He silently released her arm, which now showed unblemished skin, as if the wound had never been there.

“It is,” she said, more insistently, still looking intently at Francis. “You doubt many things but do not doubt that, Crozier. You will find your magic helpful in the days to come.”

James looked at her sharply, his hand drifting to his sword. Francis stood and stepped back hurriedly, back to James’ side.

“What do you mean?” Francis asked urgently.

She ignored Francis’ question, and turned to look directly at James. Her gaze was intense, her eyes shifting to an odd colour that defied description. “Leave behind any thoughts you had of abandoning this quest. You are too far in to turn back now.”

“How do you know about that?” James asked, although it was a futile question. This was clearly no normal woman.

She smiled, and James suddenly recognized that smile, remembering how it looked in a younger face, with different eyes. “I know more than you imagine, James son of James.”

James felt as if he’d been hit, so hard he was uncertain how he was still standing. He almost missed her continuing. “You may stay and eat, you and all your men.”

“No,” Francis said sharply, his eyes still fixed on her. He reached out to grab James’ arm. “We’ll be carrying on. Thank you for your generosity.”

She dipped her head in a deep nod, an indulgent smile on her face. “Then go with my blessing. I wish you well.”

Francis bowed deeply, his hand tight on James’ arm. James mirrored him and followed when Francis pulled him away, numb.

“What is she?” James asked as soon as the hut disappeared around the bend behind them. The men had just come back into view, a few lying or sitting on the ground while they waited.

“Not something we want to meet again,” Francis said intently. He still hadn’t let go of James’ arm. “She always appears in threes, in different forms. We’ve already seen her once; the crone at the river, before the inn.”

Of course. And that was why Francis had been so desperate not to continue then. But if she had also been the crone, then that meant-

“We’ve already seen her three times,” James said, closing his eyes in despair. “There was a young girl in the woods, before the restless dead. I helped her find her cow. But she was the same woman, I’m sure of it.”

“A cow?” Francis asked, eyebrow cocked.

“Yes,” James confirmed with a rueful look. “It seemed innocent enough at the time.”

“You weren’t to know,” Francis said, then shook his head with a sigh. His face was drawn, all the lightness that had managed to creep back into him in the last two days completely gone.

“She said the quest could not be abandoned.” James whispered. Francis looked at him for a long moment.

“No,” he said finally, just as quietly.

“And what happens if we do?”

Francis hesitated, his gaze drifting past James to the men. They were all standing now, clearly looking in their direction and waiting for a sign they should move toward the village. “I do not believe we would survive it,” Francis finally said. “There are forces beyond my power at work here now. I can’t protect us from that.”

The despair James felt at that was crushing. To have them set out on their way back to safety, only to have it snatched from in front of them just as quickly was almost too much to bear.

“And if we sent the men on?” James asked, suddenly desperate for anything that could alleviate this. “Finish this ourselves? I know it’s too much to ask, but if it could work-”

Francis simply looked at him. James sighed in defeat. 

“Then we’d best keep moving.” James said, his voice flat. Francis nodded, and followed him back to the men.

_

James did not expect it would be easy to tell the men they no longer had the option of returning to the castle. He was right.

Little seemed to take it the best, in that he accepted it wordlessly. But his face was drawn in an exacting type of misery James had not seen from him before. It made James want to reflexively apologize.

“We have to stay?” Peglar asked. “None of us can leave?”

James sighed, exchanging glances with Francis. “We would send you on if we could,” Francis said. “But power like this cannot be dodged. I don’t know exactly what would happen, but by the laws of this magic, any man leaving would be the same as abandoning the quest completely.”

The men glanced at each other. “What do we do now, then?” Hartnell asked.

Francis looked at James. “We continue,” he said slowly. “Until this is done and we can return to our homes.”

_

The next days passed slowly, and James greeted every new day with a sense of dread. They didn’t dare go into the village, so they moved back west without the supplies they so desperately needed, retracing the ground they’d covered. Each day James expected some new horror to greet them, but each day passed without incident, until they were well past the clearing where James had tried to turn them back. And even then, nothing happened. James almost found himself wishing for some kind of monster to waylay them; at least then he’d know they were on the right trail and getting closer to being able to turn back, rather than cursed to trudge through the endless trees for all eternity.

“We’ve been wandering for days, Francis,” James said after five days of nothing, “with no sign of the Grail. Are we simply meant to wander the forest forever in search of it?”

Francis, trudging along beside James, sighed. “We’ll find the trail again, in time. The Grail wants to be found; it will not abandon us.”

Once, James might have been upset with how despondent Francis sounded at the prospect. That felt like a long time ago now.

“Sir James!” Little’s voice came from ahead of them. He was pointing in the distance, through a gap in the trees. James hurried forward and saw a stone building in the distance, what looked like a very squat keep, hulking on a hillside a few miles away.

“What is it?” Evans asked from behind them.

“It’s a monastery,” James said, “I’ve been to similar places before.” He turned to Francis. “Is this where we’re meant to go?”

“I sense no magic to it, for what that’s worth,” Francis said, squinting at the building. He glanced at James. “It might be a good place to get some rest.”

If the Grail allowed them, of course. If they weren’t waylaid by some horrid event. But it was a good idea; the monks James had met had always been unfailingly kind. And the men could use some kindness now.

“Francis is right; we’ll head to the monastery.” James looked at the men around him; they all had a gleam of hope in their eyes, rejuvenated by the thought of rest and hearty meals. It felt like a long time since he’d seen the men look so fresh.

They found a dirt track which seemed to lead in the monastery’s direction with ease. The idea of rest and safety being so close at hand seemed to infuse them with speed, for it only seemed a few short hours before they broke through the trees surrounding the monastery.

The building stood tall before them, several stories high and sprawling. James found himself feeling a little intimidated, seeing a building so impressive after so long of woods and low lying village huts.

The massive door cracked open, and a man dressed in a brown habit emerged. He certainly looked the part of a monk, his hair cut in a distinctive tonsure. But the travellers at the inn seemed to be regular travellers, that girl in the woods a regular girl; James knew better than to trust his eyes now.

He looked to Francis; Francis met his gaze and shook his head. “I don’t sense anything unusual, but I didn’t sense anything at the village either,” he murmured.

“It’s not like the inn, at least?” James asked, just as quietly.

Francis shook his head, but didn’t have time to speak before the monk was before them.

“Greetings, travelers,” the monk said, bowing deeply before them. “What brings you to our humble monastery?”

“We were set upon by bandits,” James said, pitching his voice up into a clear, worried register. “They stole our horses and supplies. We’re in desperate need of any help you could provide.”

The monk nodded, looking them over with a sympathetic expression. It was too late to hide James and Little’s swords, but the men were not visibly armed beyond those. Between the dirt covering them and their lack of supplies, it wasn’t hard to sell them as hapless travelers who had fallen victim to common rogues.

“These roads are becoming ever more dangerous,” the monk said, shaking his head sadly. “Please, come in. You must be hungry.”

James cautiously followed the monk, Francis at his side. The monastery opened wide around them as they entered the massive doorway.

It was a simple building, really, as befitted those who had sworn their lives to an oath of poverty in the eyes of God. The hallways were bare stone, the floor rough and hard beneath their feet. The monk led them silently down a long corridor that echoed with their steps, flitting in and out of the sunlight peeking through the small windows. The corridor opened up into a large room, which the monk gestured them into.

The room had little in common with the great hall from Barrow’s castle. It was nowhere near the same size, although James knew that it must be a large room for a monastery. There was a long table running down the middle of the room; James surmised this must be where the monks had their meals.

“Please, be seated,” the monk said, gesturing to the chairs around the table. “I’ll be back shortly with food for you all.”

James looked to Francis again; he simply shrugged. He didn’t sense anything malicious, then; James sighed and nodded to the men, who gladly fell into the waiting chairs, letting their bags slump off their shoulders to the floor.

James groaned internally as he sat, his feet starting to sting as he took his weight off them. Francis didn’t bother with the same subtlety—he groaned audibly and his knees cracked loudly as he sat next to James. James bit down on a smile, shooting Francis a quick look.

“Aye, it’s funny now, but you won’t be laughing when you’re my age,” Francis said, his grumpiness belied by the light in his eyes.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be equally amusing when I’m your age,” James said agreeably, grinning. “Just as I’m sure you’ll laugh just as much at my cracking joints.”

Francis snorted in response. The doorway to the hall opened before he could respond, admitting a number of monks carrying wide serving trays. James watched each of them carefully, his eyes searching for any sign of anything untoward. But they seemed regular and unassuming men, of varying ages from young to very old. They put down their burdens and began laying the food out upon the table. It was no extravagant feast, but it looked filling and warm, and that was James desired right now.

Most of the monks turned to leave after setting out the food, but one remained—a man with greying hair and hair, warm eyes covered by thick brows. He bowed deeply before James and Francis.

“My name is Abbot Bridgens,” the man said, “Alfred tells me you were attacked by bandits.”

“Yes, a few days from here,” James said, standing to return the bow. “We’ve been on foot ever since. My name is James, and this is Francis, Little, Hartnell, Evans, and Peglar. We are all in your debt.”

Bridgens waved the thanks away. “We are simply doing what anyone should do. Please, enjoy this food and rest your feet.”

“Thank you,” James said, “you’re very kind.”

“You are more than welcome to stay for a few days,” Bridgens continued, “there are a few cells available that we can make ready for you.”

“We wouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality more than we already have,” James said.

“It would be no imposition. We rarely receive guests to our monastery. It would do us good to see and speak to someone new,” Bridgens replied, with a small smile.

James glanced to Francis, and saw the same wariness there that he was feeling. Bridgens and his monastery seemed trustworthy, but if this quest had taught James anything, it was that his eyes could not be relied upon to discern the truth. It was why he looked to Francis in these moments.

Francis glanced quickly at Bridgens before meeting James’ gaze again. Finally, he nodded cautiously.

“Then we’ll stay,” James said, turning back to Bridgens. “The rest will do us good. Thank you.”

“I’m glad,” Bridgens said, and bowed to them again. “Please, eat. We will ready the cells for your stay.”

James sat, watching Bridgens leave. Little leaned across the table as soon as he had. “We should still set a watch,” he whispered.

“I agree,” James said, eyes still on the doorway. Hopefully, it would come to nothing, but at least they would be prepared.

They ate until they were near bursting, by which point another monk entered to show them to their rooms. The cells were little things, set off at the end of a hallway adjacent to the monks’ own cells. Each had a small recessed area just below a high window opening which served as a bed and which the monks had lined with a pallet and blankets. They had very little appointments beyond that, other than the strewn candlesticks and a small upraised stone platform, presumably to be knelt before in prayer.

But in James’ eyes, they looked cozy and warm and promised a degree of safety that was not possible in dark woods under the open sky.

“Thank you,” he said, and the other men also murmured their thanks. The monk before them bowed.

“We will be beginning Vespers shortly,” he said, “if you need anything, you can find us in the chapel.”

The men quickly settled, two to each room, with a rotating watch to be kept throughout the night. Dusk was setting in and James could hear the faint sound of singing from deeper in the monastery. He pulled the simple wooden door closed behind him and turned to look at Francis, who groaned softly as he settled on the pallet.

“Comfortable?”

“Surprisingly yes, though I’m sure I won’t think so by morning,” Francis said, already laying down and closing his eyes. He hadn’t even bothered to remove his boots, James noticed with a smile.

He sat down beside Francis. “I suppose you could conjure up a bed for us,” he said, pulling off Francis’ boots one by one. Francis let him, squinting one eye open to look at him.

“I’m not sure a bed would fit in here.”

James smiled, turning to remove his own boots. “Then a down stuffed mattress, at least.”

“That would be nice,” Francis said, already sounding sleepy; his eye had fallen shut again and his face was relaxed.

James unbuckled his belt, setting his sword close to hand. Then he pushed Francis gently, prompting to squint one eye open again. “Move over,” James said, trying not to laugh at the grumpy glare Francis shot him.

Francis shuffled over, pressing his back against the wall. It created a sliver of room on the pallet, just enough for James to lay down on his side. Francis was pressed completely against his back; there was simply no room for any space between them. James lay tense for a moment, wondering how they could possibly sleep like this. Then Francis slung an arm around his waist and sighed.

“Maybe a bed wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all,” he said dryly. James laughed and felt the tension drain from him. He drew the blankets over them and relaxed into the pallet, lulled by the warmth of the wool and Francis' presence. The sound of voices lifted in song were soft now through the closed door, quiet enough to serve as a lullaby and guide James to slumber.

_

He woke sometime in the night, the room dark around him except for the sliver of moonlight shining through the window above. It was cold, he thought blearily, and Francis was gone.

Before he could wake up further, a warm hand pressed down on his shoulder. “Shhhhh,” Francis’ voice came in the dark. “Go back to sleep.”

James let himself be pressed back into the pallet. He reached for Francis’ hand blindly in the dark, caught hold. “Francis?”

“It’s alright, James. It’s not yet morning,” Francis said. Something settled over his blanket; James felt the fabric with his free hand and realized it was Francis' cloak, now spread out over top of him.

"Francis," he murmured, just to feel the name on his lips. The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently.

"Go to sleep," Francis said again, softly.

James drifted off, the quiet sound of praying coming from somewhere in the monastery. His hand loosened on Francis' and he felt the soft touch of fingers in his hair as sleep claimed him again.

_

When James woke again, it was morning and he could see daylight through the window. Francis was asleep next to him now, curled between James and the wall again. James must have turned in his sleep to face him; his forehead was pressed against Francis’ chest and Francis’ chin was hooked over his head.

It was comfortable and warm and the last thing James wanted to do was get up. But he could hear some of the men murmuring in the hall and he knew it was time to rise.

“How did you sleep?” Francis asked, his voice rough with sleep. His chest rumbled under James’ head as he spoke.

“Well,” James said. “How was your watch?”

“Entirely uneventful,” Francis said, and James glanced up to see him smile.

“Then maybe we can trust these people.”

Francis met his gaze. He looked just as warm and comfortable as James felt. “I hope so.”

By mutual agreement, they rose and silently got dressed. The men, as James suspected, were already waiting for them in the hall, all looking well and rested. It was good to see.

The monks broke their fast early, just after early morning prayer—by the time James and the men arrived at the dining hall, most had already finished their meals. Abbott Bridgens was still at the table and set about gathering a meal for them. James almost laughed when he saw the pot of porridge being brought out.

After breakfast, they were directed to the adjacent lavatorium to bathe. Bridgens advised them their clothes would be taken for washing and new ones would be provided in the meantime.

It was hard to remain suspicious of a man who seemed so steadfastly kind and James found himself relaxing his guard despite himself. He could see the other men doing the same, becoming more talkative with the monks. James eventually decided there appeared to be little harm in it—the other dangers they had encountered had all revealed themselves by this point and these monks seemed to be only what they appeared, nothing more. The men deserved a rest from constantly being on their guard.

It did not stop James from quietly instructing the men to never go anywhere without another member of their party, to which they all quickly agreed. Maybe it was wrong to still be so wary, but James would not relax until Francis, the one most likely to spot trouble, relaxed and he had yet to do so.

For all their paranoia, James still found the days at the monastery to be restful. He slept well, ate well, and his sentry watches were uneventful and dull. He did little besides those activities, whiling away hours in the monastery courtyard, enjoying the greenery and sunshine and the occasional philosophical discussion with Bridgens, who was very well read.

Every night, James would return to the little cell he shared with Francis. Sometimes, one or both of them would go to sleep quickly; other times, they would stay up and talk. It reminded James keenly of his visits to Francis’ cottage and the peace he’d found with him there.

It felt like finding an oasis in the middle of a desert. It was a gift to reclaim this closeness with Francis, after feeling for so long that he’d lost any chance of getting back to it. It had changed in its absence—there was an added depth to it now. He had only to look at Francis to know his mind and he knew it was the same for Francis. It was a piercing kind of joy, hot as fire, to sit next to Francis in silence and be known so completely.

He knew he could not remain in this moment forever—every evening was a gossamer thing, fragile and ephemeral. They would need to continue their quest, set out from this oasis into danger once again. But it was a shock to realize how much he did not want to. He was content here, in a little stone room, known only as James with no knighthood attached. He was content to sleep on the floor with Francis every night and wake up entangled with him every morning.

But it could not last, and when he met Francis’ eyes in the morning light, James could see he knew it too.

_

They broke it to the men over breakfast. None of them showed their disappointment, although James knew some surely felt it. They simply accepted it with nods and determined faces.

“You’re all to rest as much as you can today,” James said, meeting each of their eyes. “Francis and I will take care of the preparations. We’ll plan to set out at dawn tomorrow.”

In what direction, James wasn’t quite certain. He supposed they would just continue west; hopefully this would all be done before they fell into the sea.

Bridgens also accepted their departure with grace and James found that he would miss the man and his good nature. James didn’t even have a chance to request some vittles before Bridgens had volunteered them.

“We don’t have much here beyond what we live on,” Bridgens said, apologetically, “but we can certainly spare some food and bedding for you.”

“Anything you can give is more than enough,” Francis said, and it was decided.

James spent the afternoon wandering the monastery, taking in the garden, peeking in on the monks hard at work in the scriptorium. He washed before supper and spotted Francis in the corridor near the dining hall, looking at one of the few tapestries hung through the monastery.

James joined him, looking at the tapestry he’d not more than glanced at before. The central figure was clearly Christ and around him were arrayed several men, some with their hands raised in supplication. James would hazard a guess that the scene depicted was Christ’s appearance before the apostles after his resurrection.

“There are some who say he was a mage, you know, and not the son of God,” Francis mused. He slanted a wry look at James. “It would explain a few things.”

James laughed. “Careful, Francis, that’s dangerously close to heresy.”

Francis snorted. “Hardly the worst thing I’ve done.” The humor withdrew from his face, muted by a rising sadness. It reminded James far too much of when they were quarrelling, when it was impossible to get an honest smile from Francis.

He knocked Francis with his elbow, making Francis look at him. “Is this your way of telling me that you can come back from the dead?”

As James hoped, it worked to distract Francis from his oncoming brooding, instead prompting a snort of laughter. “That would be a useful talent, but no. I have only one life, as all of us do.”

“Well, most of us, anyway,” James said dryly, gesturing at the tapestry. Francis snorted again and nudged him toward the dining hall.

James was surprised by how many of the monks were there—although the room had clearly been constructed with the idea of having all monks eat together, in actuality many were too caught up in the work or prayers to attend a meal at one appointed time. He’d gotten used to monks entering and leaving when they would during he and his men’s own meals. But tonight, all members of the monastery had gathered and the room felt lively with their presence.

The food was simple but delicious, as always. James let himself savour every bite, knowing it was likely lean days lay ahead of them, even considering the rations Bridgens was giving them.

He would miss this place. Maybe they would be able to visit again on their way back to the court. Of course, that was assuming that any of them would survive to return, James thought with a darkness he did not like.

He glanced at the people arrayed around him, all eating and talking pleasantly. Bridgens did not stand on ceremony here and seats were not assigned by station, so all manner of monks talked with whomever they pleased. Evans was conversing with some of the younger boys, evidently about something humorous, judging by how Hartnell was snickering beside them. Little was conversing with an elderly monk beside him, a lightness to his face that James had almost forgotten was possible. Peglar was talking to Bridgens himself, seated at the far end of the table, both of them smiling.

Francis, as always seemed the case, was seated at James’ right, locked in a deep conversation about wound care with the monastery’s physician. James tuned it out from a sense of self-preservation as they began to discuss more intricate and gory injuries. He turned himself back to his food, helping himself to more of the smoked fish. He was vaguely aware of Francis speaking, but didn’t start listening again until he started gesturing at his arm and chest. They had started swapping stories of injuries they’d treated, he realized, and, if he wasn’t completely mistaken, Francis was discussing treating the wounds James had received from the griffin.

It struck James as absurdly funny, to finally be the one hearing this story rather than the one telling it, and he settled in to listen to Francis’ rendition.

He was so focused on listening that he didn’t notice the commotion to begin with. It wasn’t until Francis suddenly cut himself off in the middle of a description of how exactly James had received the claw marks down his back—-surprisingly accurate considering he hadn’t been there and James had never told him that part—that James heard the sounds from outside. It sounded like loud footsteps and voices shouting, drawing nearer.

James looked to the door just in time to see it fly open. A few monks ran into the room, one glancing hurriedly behind him. On their heels followed the most massive man James had ever seen. He was wearing armor and mail, an ornate helm sat upon his head and a large sword at his side. His armour was made from a curious type of metal James had never seen before, for it contained a faint green tinge. A tinge that matched the eyes that seemed to burn with fire beneath his helm.

“He showed up at the gate, seemingly from nowhere,” one of the monks panted to Bridgens. “Then he barged his way in without a word.”

The knight drew nearer. His presence seemed to pull all the light from around the room, bending around him to make him seem even taller. From closer, his eyes seemed like literal candles in their sockets, burning and flickering an eerie green as he glanced around the room.

Apparently, the Grail had grown impatient, and decided to find them.

“I am here to find a challenger,” the knight said, and his voice was as deep as the roots of a mountain. “Is there any man here who will take my challenge?”

“I will,” James said, immediately, standing from his seat.

“James-” Francis hissed, but stopped when James looked at him.

“What is your challenge, sir knight?” James asked.

“I want to know the strength of you Englishmen,” the knight said, those eerie eyes now fixed keenly on James. “Take up your sword.”

“And what would you have me do with it?” James asked, not letting his hand stray yet to his blade, although he desperately wanted to feel the hilt of his sword in his hand.

“I would have you try to cut off my head,” the knight said plainly and mildly, continuing despite the muttering and gasps breaking out among the room, “and then I would have you keep your word.”

“He cannot uphold his word without knowing what is promised,” Francis cut in, his narrowed eyes fixed on the knight.

The knight’s eyes jumped to Francis, and he inclined his head after a long moment. “You speak wisely. Very well.” He looked back at James. “You will give your word to meet me tomorrow, under the oak tree by the water. The rest is mine to know. Do you so give your word?”

“And if he does not?” Francis cut in again.

“Then someone else will,” the knight said simply, “for I will not leave with my challenge unmet.”

James considered the knight, the others around him glancing at each other and speaking in whispers. Then, he looked to Francis.

“Do not do this,” Francis whispered urgently, his hand catching James’ sleeve. “You can see as clearly as I can this knight is not human. We have no idea of the consequences of his challenge.”

“What would you have me do?” James asked.

Determination set on Francis’ face and James knew what he was going to say before he even began to speak.

“Let me take the challenge instead,” Francis said. James started shaking his head before the first word had finished leaving his mouth.

“I can’t let you do that.”

Francis frowned fiercely. “Why not? I’m better equipped to meet magic than you are.”

“And if something happened to you?” James asked, grabbing Francis’ hand in his own. “We both know that we must carry this quest on to whatever end; we also both know that our men have a far better chance of meeting that end alive with you to guide them. I’ll not risk you.” James squeezed his hand. “I’m a knight, Francis, I’ve been meeting other knights in combat for years. Let me do this thing.”

Francis looked at him for a long moment, the lines of his face deepened by vexed concern. “I don’t like this.”

“The feeling is mutual.” James let go of Francis with one final tight grip and turned back to the knight. “I accept your challenge, sir knight.”

The knight inclined his head, his eerie eyes disappearing beneath the curve of his helm.

James stepped away from the table, his gut churning. He met Francis’ gaze and saw his same misgivings reflected there. He nodded gravely to Francis and stepped up to meet the knight.

James was expecting to go outside with the knight at the very least, to have to fight him in combat. But the knight simply leaned over, arms behind his back. James’ gut twisted again—it felt more an execution than anything noble like combat. But perhaps that was the point.

“Are you sure?” James said, letting his hand rest on his sword.

“Yes,” the knight said pleasantly, “please continue.”

James swallowed, eyes flicking toward the table. The others were sitting transfixed, Little half standing with his hand on his sword. Francis had stood from his chair completely, the better to move quickly if needed, James knew. James waited until Francis met his eye and nodded to show he was ready.

James drew his sword and severed the knight’s head with one blow.

The body fell to the ground with a great crash, and the head rolled a few feet away. Many of the monks at the table cried out, some jumping from their seats. James backed away from the body, stomach roiling with guilt for having exposed these innocent men to such violence and for taking a life so pointlessly.

Francis quickly rounded the table, Little trailing after him, hand still on his sword.

“How the hell are you to meet him tomorrow?” Little asked, eyeing the body. “Did he mean he wanted to be buried at the oak tree?”

James opened his mouth to speak and then felt it sag open as the body began to move.

First, the elbows bent and the hands met the floor palm first. It began to push itself up, got a knee underneath itself and soon it was standing, this headless corpse, with blood still running eagerly from its neck. Little cursed, and Francis leapt in front of them both, placing himself between them at the knight.

This time, all the men at the table leapt away, scurrying away from the walking corpse. The body didn’t react, simply bent at the waist, blood dripping to puddle on the floor, and retrieved the severed head.

The body turned to face James, the head tucked securely in its elbow. The helmet had been knocked askew and James could see the face more clearly now; the skin was rough, a texture more reminiscent of tree bark than flesh. The eyes were still glowing that unearthly green. As

James watched, the mouth began to move, changing from the open sag of death to a small smile.

“You performed admirably,” the severed head said, speaking clearly even over the horrified gasps of those assembled. “I trust you’ll keep your word?”

“He cannot if he does not know why,” Francis said urgently. “Tell us what he is to do.”

The severed head seemed to consider a long moment before coming to a decision. “Very well. Tomorrow, James son of James, you will meet me under the oak tree, and I will return the favor.” The head’s mouth quirked in a smile. “A blow for blow.”

James didn’t feel shocked, didn’t feel angry. All he felt in that moment was resignation, as if he’d known precisely what the knight was going to ask since he walked into the hall.

Francis sucked in a harsh breath. “You mean him to stand still and let you kill him? No.”

“Francis,” James said softly. Francis didn’t bother to turn to look at him; he was utterly fixed on the knight. 

“If you are a man of your word, then you will meet me.” the knight said sternly, as if scolding a restless child to sit still.

“Can another take his place?” Little asked.

The knight’s eyes flashed to him. “A deal was struck.”

James broke in before anyone else could speak on his behalf. “I will meet you, sir knight,” he said, and was impressed with how calm he sounded. “Tomorrow, under the oak at the water. As agreed.”

The knight smiled again; there was blood streaking his teeth. “I will see you when the sun is the highest. Until then.” The knight walked out of the room, his steps fading until the only sign of his presence was the blood along the floor.

No one moved as the steps faded into silence, everyone seemingly still frozen.

“That was foolish, James,” Francis snapped finally, whirling on him. James was already exhausted by the argument he knew was coming. He’d just killed a defenseless man, only to have that man not die and tell him James was to die in the same manner. But James was only a mortal; there was no chance he would pick up his severed head and continue about his life as if nothing had happened. 

“What exactly was I meant to do?” James snapped back, wiping the blood off his sword with sharp motions and sheathing it. 

“Let me meet the challenge! How do you expect to survive that?” Francis said, gesturing angrily at the bloodstains on the floor. James looked away at the words, a flash of fear going through him. He angrily quelled it.

“It doesn’t matter now; what’s done is done. Let’s clean this mess up.”

Francis, mouth twisted in something that looked like regret, waved a hand. The blood disappeared as it had never been there.

Bridgens approached them, eyeing them warily. “I don’t pretend to understand what has happened here,” he said slowly.

James sighed, shame spreading slowly within him. “I apologize for bringing such violence here. None of you should have had to witness that.”

“You are not simple travellers,” Bridgens said.

“No,” Francis said, glancing at James with worry. “We’re on a quest to find a holy object for the king. We did not expect our trials would follow us here, otherwise we would not have stayed.”

“We can leave now if you prefer,” James added.

Bridgens shook his head, his expression drawn. “You were right; what’s done is done. And it appears nothing more will happen until tomorrow. Stay the night.”

The men retreated to their rooms, clearly disturbed by the evening’s events. James closed the door to his and Francis’ cell and heard the faint sound of signing prayers begin deeper in the monastery.

He huffed a small laugh. “Sometimes, I think the world could end and these monks would still be praying.” He looked at Francis, who was pacing the width of their little room before him and seemed not to have heard him. Any peace he’d gained in recent days was completely gone, replaced by a frantic energy that spurred him onward.

“You should not have done this,” he said, voice strained. “You should have let me meet the challenge.”

James sighed. “And what would that have helped? You told me, not hours ago, that you’re as mortal as anyone. How do you expect to survive a blow from a blade undefended?”

Francis looked at him darkly. “That’s not the point and you know it. It’s better for it to be me than you.”

“Better for you to throw your life away?” James asked angrily. “For you to die in my place? I will not accept that.”

“But I am supposed to accept this? Supposed to stand back and allow this?” Francis spat. “It is a waste, James, a waste of your life.”

“I knew the risks when I decided to join this quest,” James said.

“No, you didn’t!” Francis shouted. “You had no idea the risks! You thought what every other naive knight who has chased this thing thought—that it was a lofty and noble quest with the usual dangers but that it would not claim your life.” He stepped closer to James, face filled with desperate pleading. “But I knew. I knew the risks. And I accepted anyway.”

“Because I asked you to,” James whispered. He put his hands on Francis’ shoulders. “I will not ask this of you. And you cannot ask it of me.”

Francis stared up at him, face twisted with a growing anguish. He gripped the front of James’ tunic and shook him by it, ever so slightly. “Do not ask me to stand aside and let you die.”

“I must,” James whispered. Francis cursed sorrowfully and let his head fall to rest on James’ chest.

They stood there for a long moment in silence. James let his grip on Francis’ shoulders slide back until his hands were splayed across his back in an embrace. He let his head fall forward until his cheek rested against Francis’ hair.

He wished he could stay here, in this moment. He wished the day hadn’t happened, that they could begin it again curled on their pallet together. He wished he could string that moment, and the ones like it that had come before, into a line, like pearls on a cord continuing into infinity. The only constant he needed was Francis; everything else was just chaff in the wind.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” James said eventually, his voice choked. “The last thing I want is to cause you pain.”

Francis gripped him tighter. “Don’t apologize to me. You have no need to.”

“I’m tired,” James said, and couldn’t bring himself to feel shame at the plaintiveness in his voice.

Francis sighed deeply and backed away. James let go of him, only for Francis to grab his hands.

“Then come sleep,” Francis said. He led James to the pallet, helping James unbuckle his sword belt and laying it within reach. James sat down and Francis crouched beside him, pulling his boots off one by one. James laid down and stared up at the ceiling, waiting until Francis lay down beside him in his usual spot by the wall.

James curled into him, putting his head on Francis’ chest. Francis drew the blankets up, tucking them around James securely before winding his arms around James.

James let his eyes fall closed and listened to the breath in Francis’ chest. Because of the choice James had made, that breath would continue past noon tomorrow. It would hopefully continue for years to come, until Francis was an old man, doddering and grey, and James was only a distant memory.

There was nothing to regret in that.

_

James awoke early the next morning; the sky outside was just barely beginning to lighten. He and Francis had shifted slightly in the night—Francis now lay on his back and James was half sprawled across his chest, an arm around Francis’ waist. If he looked up, he could just see Francis’ sleeping profile. James allowed himself to look at his face for a long moment before carefully easing himself out from under the blanket.

He dressed quietly, belting on his sword out of habit and the knowledge he’d feel naked without it. It didn’t matter that he would not be drawing it; the weight was a comfort at his side. And after all, what kind of knight would he be, dying without his sword?

He turned next to his small sack of belongings. It did not contain much of value, only some spare clothes, a flint, and a few tokens he’d decided to bring with him. He’d leave it with Francis, he decided. Let him share what he would among the men and dispose of the rest.

James rifled through the small sack, absent-mindedly fingering the contents. Here was the ribbon gifted to him by a village girl many years back for his first slain monster. And here, a poorly corded necklace William had made for him when he left Lord Robert’s lands all those years ago. The small things he had thought worth bringing along on this quest, items with little meaning to anyone else.

He tucked the ribbon around his wrist. He hesitated over the necklace before wrapping it around his other wrist. He would not have it damaged in what was to come.

He reached into the sack again and felt cold metal. It was the brooch, the griffin with its glittering eyes, the one he’d bought and thought to give what felt like so long ago now. It shone dully in the early morning light, just as striking and life-like as the day he’d bought it, as if the silver creature were about to leap into motion.

“What is that?” Francis’ sleepy voice asked. James glanced over his shoulder to see he was awake, blinking blearily at James. James turned back to the brooch.

“Do you remember when we met?” he asked quietly.

“It would be difficult to forget; you bled all over my house,” Francis said wryly. James glanced at him and saw he was smiling, a teasing light in his eyes. He was putting on a brave face for James, not wanting these last few moments together to be filled with sadness. James was desperately grateful for it.

“Hardly all over. I’m very careful where I bleed,” James said archly, at which Francis snorted ungentlemanly.

James looked at the brooch again. He’d thought this gift impetuous once, brought on by thoughts and feelings he’d not wanted to look at too closely. He’d justified his thoughts with assumptions that Francis would surely refuse it, creating an awkward situation neither wanted. And then he’d done his best to forget about it, even as he carried it with him over miles and miles.

James closed his hand over the brooch, then held his closed hand out to Francis. Francis looked at him curiously, placing his own hand out. James gently let the brooch fall into his waiting palm.

“It’s beautiful,” Francis said quietly, turning it over in his hands.

“It’s yours,” James said, smiling when Francis looked up at him. “I bought a long time ago, before this all started. I meant to give it to you then, but…” he trailed off.

He didn’t know what to say, how to explain his thoughts from that day. He found so often now that he did not have to speak around Francis, as if words were no longer needed between them. Everything had already been said between them.

Except maybe one thing.

“I never knew my real father, my birth father,” James said, and his heart began to pound. “I was fostered with Lord Robert, but he is not my real father. My real father was a ridiculous man. He died destitute from ill-managed debts.”

James glanced at Francis; he was looking back curiously, his head tilted as he listened. “My father spent many years abroad, travelling and buying and selling goods. He would spend many years away. During that time, he met my mother. I never knew her; he never even told me where she came from.”

He met Francis’ eyes. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. “I was born out of an affair.”

James wasn’t sure how he expected Francis to react, but he did nothing extraordinary. He did not recoil, his expression barely changed except to show surprise and sympathy.

“My father gave me to Lord Robert to foster. His family treated me as one of their own, but I could not escape my origins. You told me once that I came on this quest to prove something about myself; you were more right than you could know. That has been all my life has been, seeking one grand thing after another to try to build a life I was not ashamed to live.” James huffed a bitter laugh, looking down at his hands, twisted in his lap. “And now it has brought me here, to a last vain-glorious pursuit that will finally claim it.”

Silence fell in the room for a long moment, long enough for James to question whether this was the thing that would finally drive Francis from him. Then Francis’ hands settled upon his, curling around his fingers.

“Everyone wants to prove something, to themselves and to the world,” Francis said, voice low. “That does not make you less brave, nor less good.”

“Everything I have ever done has been out of a desire to be seen, out of vanity,” James said roughly.

Francis squeezed his hands ever so gently. James looked up at him; he was smiling, warm and fond. “Everything? Even visiting a curmudgeonly old mage who fed you awful porridge to try and make you leave him alone?”

James couldn’t help but laugh, Francis joining in. “Damn you, I knew you were doing that on purpose.”

Their laughter faded after a moment, leaving them still holding hands on the floor like boys.

Francis spoke into the gathering quiet, voice serious again and fervent. “If you slay a beast to prove yourself or be praised, the farmer’s sheep and livelihood are still saved. It doesn’t matter why the good deed was done; good was still done, and that is what will be remembered.”

James nodded silently, meeting Francis’ gaze with damp eyes.

Francis looked at him a long moment, until James felt steadier. Then he stood and swiftly dressed. He turned to James and held out the brooch. “Will you help me put it on?”

James stood, taking the brooch gently from Francis’ hand. He affixed it to Francis’ cloak slowly, sliding the sword-shaped pin through the fabric with care so as not to prick him. It looked extravagant resting against the simple wool of Francis’ clothing but James still thought it suited him somehow. James let his hands rest on Francis’ chest for a moment, just admiring the shine of the metal and jewels and feeling Francis breathe.

“I have nothing to give you,” Francis whispered. His eyes were very bright.

You’ve given me plenty, James thought, more than I could have ever asked for or deserved; more than anyone else ever has. But there had been a thought plaguing him, one that had started to take root in his mind last night as he fell asleep and had sprung from the soil of his imagination fully sprouted as he woke.

“I know I have no right to ask it of you,” James started, then stopped, unsure how or if he even should continue.

“Ask it,” Francis said.

“Come with me. To the oak.” James knew it was too much to ask. He could not imagine being able to do so if Francis was in his place—to accompany the man to certain death and allow him to meet it without trying to prevent it. He could not imagine having the fortitude to allow that to happen, regardless of the consequences.

But that was why he was asking Francis.

Francis’ face twisted briefly with an indescribable pain, before he wiped it away so thoroughly it was as if it had never been there. When he put his hands on James’ shoulders, all James saw in his face was warmth.

“Of course.”

_

The men were already awake when James and Francis left their cell, waiting in the corridor outside. Evans was teary-eyed and the rest looked equally miserable.

“You must let me take your place, Sir James,” Little said as soon as he saw them. Francis snorted.

“I’ve spent all night trying to convince him to let me do it; I’ll doubt you’ll have more success,” he said and Little sighed, gaze falling to the floor. James grasped his shoulder.

“Let’s have no more talk of this. We’ll eat, relax, just as we would on any other day,” he said.

Little nodded silently.

Breakfast was a quiet affair and James found he did not have the energy to make it more lively. But at least the men were conversing quietly and no longer staring at him morosely as if he were already dead. They tarried late in the dining hall, long after the food was gone, simply sitting around the table and enjoying each other’s company.

They were good men, all of them, stout and true to the last. James was glad to have had the chance to know them.

Finally, the sun was high enough James knew it was time to leave.

“It is time for me to leave you,” James said, looking at each man in turn. “You have all done me proud.”

“We’ll never forget you,” Evans blurted, teary-eyed again. James clasped his shoulder.

“Nor I, you,” he said. “I know we’ll all meet again, in the world after this one.” He looked at Francis, at his right. Francis nodded.

“Francis will accompany me,” James said, still looking at him. “Then he’ll return and lead you through this and back home.”

They all stood, shaking his hand one by one. They accompanied him to the door of the monastery; Bridgens was already there. He bowed to James deeply, an honour James returned in kind.

“It has been a pleasure,” Bridgens said.

“The pleasure has been ours. May I have your permission for my men to stay here until Francis returns?”

Bridgens’ warm eyes softened further, glancing between James and Francis before his gaze fell on the men. “Of course,” he said. “Our doors will always be open to you.”

They bid their final goodbyes before the door of the monastery. It was a wrench to leave them, with the quest incomplete and their lives still in danger. But Francis would be there to guide them, just as he had guided James; they would make it through this and return to their homes and lead long, happy lives. James could ask no more than that.

The oak wasn’t far, just down the hill by the side of the lake nestled there. He and Francis walked there in silence, side by side. 

The knight was already waiting when they arrived at the tree, hands folded patiently over the pommel of his sheathed sword. His head was miraculously reattached and his armour was clean of gouts of blood—if James had not been the one to decapitate the knight, he would not have believed it had happened.

“Are you ready, Sir James?” the knight asked as they approached.

“Yes,” James said. He had no grand words left in him.

“I did not expect you to bring a companion,” the knight said, looking at Francis with his eldritch eyes. Francis stiffened.

“You did not specify I could not,” James said.

The knight’s lips quirked into a smile. “Indeed.” he gestured to a spot in front of him. “When you are ready.”

James swallowed heavily, and let his eyes go to Francis, as they always seemed to do. His expression was tight and drawn with impending grief and James felt himself crumble before it. He grasped Francis’ shoulders, Francis grabbing his arms in return. They drew close to each other, until they were breathing each other’s air and James’ world was Francis.

“You will live,” James whispered fiercely. “God wants you to live.”

Francis’ face twisted but he continued to hold James’ eyes, still steady even now. It buoyed James, gave him the strength to let go and turn away.

James came to stand in front of the knight, facing over the water. It was beautiful, a deep blue sparkling with sunlight and surrounded by rolling green hills. James took a deep breath, then bent slightly at the waist, presenting his neck for the blow.

“Are you sure?” the knight said.

“Go on,” James said quietly, and closed his eyes tightly at the sound of a sword being drawn.

The knight moved beside him, and James could sense the sword being lifted above him. Then it was whistling through the air and James-

Didn’t feel a thing.

There was a breeze, as left behind by something moving very quickly, and then the sword was in front of him. James stayed still, staring at the blade, and had the sudden thought it had been so sharp that his mind had not yet grasped he was dead.

But there was no blood on the blade, and James felt steady. He drew his courage, and stood, half wondering if his head would simply fall off as he did so.

It did not, and he stood freely, turned to stare at the knight. Francis was at his side the next instant, seizing his arm in a tight grip.

“You’re alright,” he said, his raw tone not making it clear whether it was a statement or a question.

“So I am,” James replied, his hand coming up automatically to press Francis’ own. Francis’ face twisted again, relief so sharp it looked like it hurt. They both turned to stare at the knight.

“You showed courage today, both of you. Not many meet their death so nobly. Fewer still allow a loved one to do so. For this, you will be allowed to pass.” The knight’s voice was grave, and his green eyes blazed brightly, even in the noon sun.

“And what, exactly, does that mean?” Francis asked, his voice as tight as his grip. James wondered briefly if all he would have to show of this encounter would be finger-shaped bruises on his arms and almost laughed.

The knight turned and pointed. There was a small boat resting against the shore of the lake, with a man inside it. James was certain it had not been there a second ago, neither had he heard the sound of rowing approaching in the water.

“Go with him,” the knight said. “He will take you on.”

“And the men?” Francis asked.

The knight shook his head. “They have not been deemed worthy.”

“Will they be safe?” Francis demanded.

The knight titled his head. “That is for you to decide.”

So the men would be held responsible for any actions he and Francis took. It was not a comforting thought and it wasn’t fair but James would expect no less from this quest, not anymore.

The knight stepped aside, clearing the way. James looked to Francis, and slowly, they began to approach the boat.

The man inside it waited patiently. He looked like a fisherman, judging by the nets and fishing lines in the prow of the boat. And yet he was dressed far too richly to be that, his clothes made of bright and sumptuous fabrics and hands covered in rings.

“Come, good travellers,” he said, gesturing the two of them on. James stepped into the boat first, warily, then held out a hand to assist Francis. As soon as they were settled, the fisherman picked up his oars and set them away from the shore with powerful strokes. James glanced back at the shoreline and saw the knight had disappeared completely. Of course he had.

James looked back at the water, sparkling around them. An oar stroke splashed some water droplets on his fingers, pleasantly cool in the heart of the day. The sun beat down on them and he could feel sweat gathering beneath his tunic. He glanced to Francis, studying his worried profile, his tight grip on his staff, the way the brooch shone so brightly it was almost blinding.

What an odd thing, to live beyond expectation.

James felt a cool breeze on his skin, bringing him back from his thoughts. They were rowing steadily toward a sheet of mist which had suddenly gathered despite the noon-day heat. The fisherman seemed to see nothing amiss about, for his strokes missed not a stride.

“What is that?” James asked him. The fisherman glanced at him but did not speak.

They approached the mist quickly, and then it was enfolding them, so dense James could not see more than a yard off the bow. As they entered the mist, Francis gasped quietly.

“What is it?” James asked, concern flickering higher at the look on Francis’ face.

“It’s the same as what I felt at the inn,” Francis said quietly.

James swallowed. Another gateway then, an opening to the Other Realm concealed within this unnatural mist. And this time there would no one who could come look for them; the men could search this lake for years and never find the opening, not without magical aid.

“Will you be able to get us out?” James asked.

“I was lucky, last time. These portals are not something to enter lightly,” Francis said. “I’ll find a way.”

He said it to reassure James and not out of a sense of strong belief, that was clear. James appreciated the effort, in any case.

Just as suddenly as the mist fell, it lifted. The lake spread around them again, but now it was grey under a cloudy sky and choppy in the wind. James glanced around them and found their surroundings completely changed—the hills were thick with trees now instead of grass and flowers. Most disturbingly, the monastery was gone as if it had never been there at all.

And before them, the fisherman’s destination was now in view—an small island, just large enough to a decrepit keep which had clearly fallen into ruin many years ago. James could see large parts of the walls had crumbled, leaving gaping holes behind. It looked completely abandoned.

The island also sported a short pier, which the fisherman pulled them up to quickly. He heaved himself out of the boat, setting about securing it to the pier. Now that James saw him standing, he could see there were large bloodstains on his shirt and trousers. It seemed fresh, still glinting wetly in the daylight. James hoped they were the result of gutting fish but somehow he doubted it.

James made to stand, but Francis held out a hand to stop him.

“Why have you brought us here?” he asked the fisherman. He glanced at Francis and this time deigned to speak.

“All will be revealed inside,” was all he said. He straightened and stood staring at them in silence.

Francis scoffed, but stood and exited the boat, holding out a hand for James. As soon as they were both on the pier, the fisherman turned and headed to the castle with a heavy limp. James and Francis exchanged a look and followed.

The castle was in an even worse state than James had initially thought. The stones were weathered and beaten, barely providing any shelter against the wind still blowing. Few of the roofs seemed to have survived, many of them collapsing sometime in the past. Plants and moss had begun to overtake it, growing stubbornly in the cracks of the stone. It looked as if the place had been abandoned centuries ago, like those ruins left behind by the Romans so long ago.

But the fisherman led them inside with a sure step, weaving between crumbling walls and strewn stone rubble with nary a glance about. They had no choice but to follow him.

The fisherman ducked through a low doorway; James followed and found himself standing at the edge of a long, grand hall. The roof here had survived better than in other areas, with only a few holes and the empty stone window frames admitting daylight. The hall was completely empty and the stone floor rang under their steps; overall, it gave the impression of some massive cave, rather than a castle keep.

The fisherman had stopped halfway down the hall, turning to face them. There was something regal in his bearing, something that reminded James of the court and how the king knew exactly how to command the attention of everyone around him whenever he desired it.

“Welcome to my halls. It is an honour to have such worthy men before me,” the fisherman said, his voice reverberating in the crumbling hall.

“Who are you?” Francis demanded, stopping beside James just inside the door of the hall.

The fisherman shook his head. “My name is not important. All you must know is that I possess what you seek.” 

James shared a quick, disbelieving look with Francis. “The Grail? It’s here?”

“Indeed.”

It was hard to believe; all these weeks of searching, the perils they had gone through, the blood they’d shed, and now the Grail lay before them. Not only that, they had practically been delivered to it, when it had remained elusive for so long. For a moment, the chance of them returning home felt so close James could almost taste it.

But that was foolishness, and he knew it. They had no certain path back to their own realm, even relying on Francis’ magic. And James had a feeling the Grail would not let them go so easily.

“And what must we do to claim it?” he asked.

“To achieve anything of value, sacrifices must be made,” the fisherman said. “For everything there is a cost. It is a lesson you have learned well throughout your travels.”

James thought of the men who had died at the inn; poor Gore who had already been lost to them before he had perished. He thought of the innocent monks frightened in their own home, and their men there whose lives still hung in the balance, even now. All of that pain and blood, deemed a worthy, even necessary, sacrifice.

“Men have died,” Francis said, seeming to pick the words straight from James’ mind. “Good men. The blood that has been spilled in the name of this thing—nothing is worth that.”

The fisherman fixed them with a stern, almost chiding, look. “The Grail brings many things: honour, prosperity, power. It is good, and it is wise. Simply being near it will make you a better man.” Francis snorted at that, but the fisherman seemed not to notice. “But it demands a heavy cost; to claim it, something of equal value must be lost.”

“We have nothing to give you,” James said, suddenly weary beyond measure. What did they have to give that they had not already offered? He had tried to give his life for this quest not an hour ago. What else could it possibly demand?

The fisherman laughed lowly, the sound ringing around them. “Do not judge yourself so poorly. For you possess one of the most valuable things in the world.” His eyes flicked from James to Francis, lingering on him. James felt his stomach drop.

“Me?” Francis asked, a brow rising. James almost spoke over him, demanding, “What do you mean?”

The fisherman’s eyes flicked back to James. “To prove your charity, your humility, your devotion, the Grail asks one final thing of you,” he said. “Sacrifice that which you value most, and it will be yours, till the end of your days.”

The breath stuttered in James’ lungs, seeming to freeze within him. “No. Never.”

Francis still looked confused beside him, as if he had not realized what the price the fisherman spoke of was.

“This is not something which can be refused,” the fisherman said, a thunderous frown beginning to gather on his face.

“What, exactly, are we talking about here?” Francis asked.

“He wants you,” James spat, not looking away from the fisherman.

“Me?” Francis repeated, sounding more dumbfounded.

James spared a glare at him. “Yes, Francis. Dammit, this is not the time to indulge your self-pity.”

Francis glared back at him. “Forgive me if I find it a little hard to believe that at the end of all this, the one last thing required to claim the oh-so-powerful Grail is me.” He turned to the fisherman. “What exactly is so special about me?”

The fisherman’s frown cleared slightly. “The cost of the Grail shifts, depending on who is attempting it. Sometimes it is a thing, sometimes a person, sometimes an idea. Whatever is most valued, that is what the Grail asks for.”

Francis turned back to James, the confusion on his face shifting into something more vulnerable. It was an expression that James wanted to shelter, to bring close to him so no others could see it and hurt Francis with it. “Most valued?” he asked, voice quiet.

James shuddered beneath that voice, but he could not look away from Francis. “Surely you must know,” he whispered. “Surely it must be plain by now.”

Francis’ expression crumbled, emotion naked in his face. He seized James’ hands in his, holding them tightly. “James,” he choked. “Oh, James.”

“I do not require you to return my feelings-”

“Of course I do, you fool. What do you take me for?” Francis snapped, and James couldn’t help but laugh. He ducked his head, bringing Francis’ hands up to press a quick kiss to the back of both. He looked up to find Francis’ face flaming red and laughed again.

They were coldly brought back to reality by the fisherman’s voice. James felt a flare of embarrassment to realize the man had witnessed all that; he’d almost forgotten where they were.

“A decision must be made,” the fisherman said.

“A decision is made,” James snapped, his hands tightening on Francis’. “I refuse to surrender Francis.”

“If you refuse, then your life, and all the lives of your men, are forfeit. You will lose him either way,” the fisherman said, that great frown gathering again.

“Wait!” Francis cried, pulling James’ gaze back to him. He tugged gently on their shared grip, pulling James closer. “This is my choice, James.”

“Francis-” James started. Francis cut him off, his face calm, accepting. He gazed up at James with a look in his eyes that James had long wanted to see there, far before he’d admitted to himself that he did so. “Let me make my choice.”

“Let me make it with you!” James said, desperation building. It could not end like this; he wouldn’t let it. “That is all I want. To be with you.”

The words seemed to stun Francis into silence, his mouth dropping open slightly. James took the opportunity to turn to the fisherman.

“We’ll both stay,” he said resolutely. He had no idea whether that was even an option. But if the only way to save the men’s lives was to sacrifice Francis, then, dammit, he was not going to be alone.

“No, James-” Francis said, horrified, only to be cut off by the fisherman.

“You would tie your fate to his?”

“Yes,” James said, without hesitation.

The fisherman looked at Francis. “And you agree?”

Francis said nothing for a long moment, staring up at James. James returned his gaze, trying to write plainly everything he was thinking and feeling on his face. James could not tell whether Francis was pleased by whatever he read there; his brows tilted in something adjacent to anguish and his face flooded with that same vulnerability James so desperately wanted to guard.

“Yes,” he said finally. James sagged in relief. “Yes. Damn you, James.”

“Very well,” the fisherman said. “Your fates will be as one. Where one leads, the other will follow. Where one lives, so there will the other dwell. And when one dies, the other shall join them beyond the veil. No more shall the world remember Sir James son of Robert, and Crozier, mage of Éire. For those men no longer exist. Their deeds were done by other men, their paths trod by different feet. Their friends and family will not remember them, for they never were.”

As he spoke, lights began to swirl around the fisherman. A bright cloud gathered and within it James could see glimpses of the court, of people he knew. Goodsir was there, hunched over his books. The men, in the monastery dining hall with Bridgens. William, back home on his father’s lands, surrounded by a wife and children James had never gotten to meet. Between them he thought he saw Thomas’ face, and a man with chin length hair and a rogue-ish smile. Behind them was another man with curly hair and an overgrown beard, laughing uproariously.

“Is this still a sacrifice you choose to make?” The fisherman asked.

James looked away from the visions dancing before them to Francis. His face was sad, longing, as he stared at the images in the mist. But then he looked at James and he smiled, and that smile was bright, and James knew what he was going to say before he spoke.

“Yes. We’ll make it gladly.”

_

Barrow’s second quest for the Grail was a failure. His men returned with only four to their number—the knight Little, and three squires. Little told the court of an inn which claimed the lives of many of their men. How they soldiered on, under Little’s command, until the trail for the Grail went cold. They never did find it.

Life at the court went on. The king died shortly after the failure of the quest, and the throne passed to his son and heir. The court settled into the rule of the new king and, as time passed, the quest was largely forgotten, a black mark on the former king’s rule that went best unspoken.

And so it went unnoticed when the squire Peglar elected to leave the castle’s service, venturing back to a monastery many miles away. It went unremarked when the squire Evans became apprenticed to the court scribe Goodsir, who was pleased and bemused by how well the boy could read even without formal schooling. And when the squire Hartnell became a knight, there was much celebration and no thoughts of the Grail.

Sir Little ventured out from the castle more often, patrolling the surrounding areas. There were all manner of beasts, magical or otherwise, that caused the villagers grief. Little found the work dirty and hard, but rewarding.

One day, he faced a griffin and defeated it, though not without injury. Little considered the dead griffin and felt a pull on his mind, as if reaching for something he had forgotten. But there was nothing there; he sought sanctuary and healing at a nearby village, overseen by a headman with unearthly blue eyes, and dwelt on it no more.

Over time, tales of a knight and a mage reached the ears of the court, brought by visiting nobles who had heard them from their peasantry. Supposedly, they would appear in times of danger only to melt back into oblivion and disappear when the danger was defeated. If a monster was threatening your village, the knight would appear to slay it. If a sickness visited your family, the mage would appear to tend it. And woe to any bandits or rogues who fell upon unsuspecting travellers, for they would be met with sword and staff.

No one knew their names. No one even really knew what they looked like, although few who saw it forgot the eerie glow of witch-light when the mage released his magic. Many doubted they truly existed, not least of all the nobles. But there was something romantic about the tales that caught the court’s imagination and it wasn’t long before the aged court scribe, Evans, was writing about them in his books, to be perused by future academics in their climate-controlled archives.

The tales differed: in some the knight had dark hair and eyes and steely armour and bore the mark of a spotted cat. In others, he was unarmoured and all that marked him a knight was his skill with a blade. In some tales the mage was fiery-eyed, his staff shining brightly in the darkness. In others, he was a plain and simple looking man, the only distinctive thing about him the shining brooch at his throat. Sometimes they were barely seen, buried in the margins of vellum pages and others they took over the story entirely.

But one thing that all the tales agreed on was that the knight and the mage were always together, side by side. They faced every danger, every adventure, as one. Nothing could divide them.

For they were bound to each other, the knight and the mage. And they always would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Stories that inspired this include:  
> -Táin Bó Cúailnge, particularly Morrigan's three appearances to Cú Chulainn  
> -The Mabinogion, specifically the birds of Rhiannon that appeared the story of Culhwch and Olwen  
> -Togail Bruidne Dá Derga or the Destruction of Dá Derga's Hostel from the Ulster Cycle  
> -Sir Gawain and the Green Knight  
> -The Fisher King from Chrétien de Troyes' Perceval, the Story of the Grail 
> 
> Not sure this is how my professors would have wanted me to put these classes to use, but oh well!


End file.
